


A Christmas Prince

by niliria



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Duran Duran - Freeform, F/F, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Former Ashe Duran/Sylvain Jose Gautier, M/M, Minor Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Size Difference, Spoilers, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niliria/pseuds/niliria
Summary: Ashedue, but make it hallmark.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 55
Kudos: 77





	1. A PECULIAR MAN

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gourmet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gourmet/gifts).



> Finally, my first entry into the FE3H fandom \o/ I'm so excited to contribute to this rarepair!  
> This is a modern AU take on Ashedue, so please note that the characterization is not going to match the game 100% as events such as The Tragedy of Duscur and Lonato's Rebellion did not happen in this story.
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful editor Drosi and my buddies who were kind enough to take a look at this work from when it was just a few snippets long to the monster it became.
> 
> Merry Christmas in May!
> 
> Discuss with me here (via comment) or on Twitter at @shoppaibitch.

A sharp trill pierces through the room, promptly seizing Ashe by the scruff of the neck from sleep. His fingers twist around in his sheets for his bow, aiming to strike down the mage before she finishes her incantation. He’s disoriented. It takes a moment for his mind to process that the battlefield was but a very vivid dream, that he is alone at home in bed, and that the war cry that woke him is actually his phone.

The clock reads 3am. Ashe groans, sleep still crusting his eyes, but he picks up the phone. Given the time zone difference it is probably around mid-afternoon where Mercedes is calling from—she usually is quite thoughtful but sometimes little details like that slip by her.

“Hello?” Fatigue must coat his words because the voice on the other end goes from sing-songy to concerned instantaneously.

“Ashe, oh my, I called you at an ungodly hour again, didn’t I?”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and stifles a yawn. “A little bit Mercedes. What’s going on?”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call back later?”

If she’s calling without checking the time, it must be urgent. “No, no. It’s fine.”

“Well,” Mercedes is chipper again, her guilt already a thing of the past, “If it’s alright with you, I’m calling because I need to ask a big favor! You know how I’ve been working at the palace as a chef? I’ve finally accrued enough time here and have PTO. Annette said, ‘We’re going on holiday’ and you know I can’t say no to her, so I was hoping you could be a dear and take my place for a few weeks?”

It’s a shot of caffeine. Ashe is now wide, wide awake. “You want me to fly to the Kingdom of Faerghus so you can go on holiday?” He fails to mask the tinge of alarm in his question. Usually he is the first to volunteer if someone needs help but this is a bigger undertaking than he is used to.

“Yes!” She must sense his hesitation. Her voice takes on an urgent, pleading tone. “I hate to inconvenience you, but it has to be you, Ashe! There’s no one else I trust to take over for me. You’re the one who taught me to cook after all.”

“But it’ll be around Christmas!” Somewhere throughout this exchange he starts pacing and startles after nearly walking into a lamp. The conversation continues its path from bad to worse. Royalty and Ashe are oil and water. He always ends up on the bottom, too dense to know the correct thing to do or say. His foot becomes a permanent fixture in his mouth and the taste is unbearably unpleasant.

“Yes, I know, but you and Sylvain broke up a few months back and your siblings are traveling so you’re going to be alone for Christmas aren’t you?”

“I mean technically yes, but my air plants—”

Mercedes has had it. “Listen here Ashe Duran, both you and I know air plants are self-sufficient and you’re just making excuses. You need to get out of this funk and out of that house. We’re only given one life, so go out there and pursue your happiness!”

“My happiness can’t be in a foreign country!” He’s throwing any excuse at Wall Mercedes, in the hopes that something will stick.

“You don’t know that. It’s only a few weeks and you get to hang out in a palace! What better way to spend the holidays than in a kingdom, dazzling lords and ladies with your cooking like you wanted to when we were students? I’ll let them know that you’re coming and send you a flight itinerary soon. Thank you Ashe! May the Goddess bless you with a new romance this year!”

“Mercedes wait—”

The line cuts out. Ashe groans and flops back onto the bed. He pinches his arm, willing himself to wake from what is surely another dream. 

It is very much not a dream as evidenced by the itinerary sitting in his inbox a few hours later.

He grumbles a little as he types in his passport information, but can’t deny that Mercedes has a point. Since the breakup he has been a recluse, rarely leaving his couch when not working the diner. Mercedes had uncovered something long lost: as a student, he did often mouth off about wanting to travel and experience different cuisines and cultures. It’s just that the necessities of reality took center stage once he graduated. First it was his adoptive father getting sick, next it was helping put his siblings through school, then it was putting together an emergency fund for them in case something happened to him, so on and so forth. There was always something holding him here. It became a mantra: he could leave anytime, _no_ _really, anytime_. Anytime just happened to end up being never.

Ashe laughs quietly. To think he’d even dare to have such lofty goals. He eyes the photo next to his monitor and reaches out to gently run his finger over his late father’s, Lonato’s, face. His world had been so small. His aspirations had consisted of one thing and one thing only: survival. A full belly for him and his siblings. He’d dared not think of much else. Dreams were gilded displays after all, far beyond the reach of someone like him. Yet, Lonato. Lonato had picked him up, pressed his fingers against the window, and told him to look. Told him to dream.

Perhaps this trip isn’t such a bad thing after all.

He shuts down his laptop after sending the e-mail and gets ready to open up for the day.

-

Several hours of rushed packing and an entire day of travel later, Ashe blearily grabs his suitcase from the baggage carousel and passes through Customs. There is a slight moment of panic as he scans the crowd gathered around Arrivals, but the feeling disperses faster than a child unwrapping a gift on Christmas morning. A booming voice yells, “Duran, Duran! Is There Anyone Out There, named Ashe Duran?” off to his left.

A hesitant sense of recognition worms across his mind.

The voice continues, “I hope he arrives soon because The Sun Doesn’t Shine Forever. At this rate I’ll be the Last Man Standing!"

His doubt transforms, metamorphizes into clarity. The likelihood of four Duran Duran references in a row being a coincidence? Zero to none. He groans. Mercedes had warned him that her boss was Notorious (Ashe chides himself for making a reference of his own) for puns so teeth-achingly awful. Apparently the Crown Prince had once considered banning them outright.

“That would be me.” He calls out and in a matter of seconds, he is crushed against a man’s chest. 

“Welcome!” There is hearty laughter as Ashe is finally released. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance Ashe Duran! I am Alois Rangeld, head chef of the royal palace of Faerghus.”

Ashe nods, part indicating that he is paying attention and part trying to wake himself up. “Nice to meet you. I’m Mercedes’ friend, here to fill in during the holiday season.”

“Which I appreciate.” Alois smacks Ashe warmly on the back and pushes him along towards the car waiting outside. “Winter is our busiest season with the Winter Charity Ball and all the nobles and press that we have to please. We’re barely skating by with everyone taking holiday around this time. You could say that if you hadn’t volunteered, we would’ve been on _thin ice!_ ”

The delivery and the way Alois puffs his chest out actually manages to wrest a laugh out of Ashe. Again, Mercedes had explicitly advised against encouraging Alois’ behavior, but given the way the head chef’s eyes light up it is probably a negligible mistake. 

After a forty minute drive, Ashe swears to follow Mercedes’ rule to a T from now on. Alois is a dog chasing after a bone. He drops pun after pun as they drive past security via the servant’s gate and into the palace grounds. Desperation and quality have an inverse relationship; it’s clear that these jokes are becoming less thought through and Alois is targeting the low hanging fruit. Ashe smiles through it all because he’s polite but truthfully he’s only a few minutes from completely chewing through his lower lip. Thankfully they reach their destination not too long after. Alois parks the car and leads him into the palace.

Ashe nearly trips over himself while gawking at his surroundings. He’s broken into his fair share of safes and luxury estates, but they do not hold a candle to the palace; his very definition of opulence shifts, the previous entries deleted and replaced with the finery before him. As a kid, he used to get lost in stories of valiant knights serving their lords. The grand palaces that doubled as indomitable fortresses in the backdrop of his childhood imaginings are now his reality. Just for the briefest of moments, he closes his eyes, and the handle of his suitcase transforms into a lance. His chainmail rests weightily on his skin and a regal sense of duty straightens his posture. He is a knight ready to serve the Kingdom.

“First day jitters?” Alois interrupts, already at the door.

Ashe’s armor poofs into thin air as he jolts back to the present. “Ah, er, yes!” He stammers, face flush with embarrassment. He hurries to join the other man. It is only day one after all; there will be plenty of time to daydream while off the clock.

The older man gives him a quick tour of the kitchen, facilities, and introduces him to the remaining kitchen staff. There is only a handful of staff present but they seem friendly enough, welcoming Ashe to the team without question. He goes through the motions of introducing himself to everyone, but he’s in quicksand and drowning. Names and faces blur together in a kaleidoscopic haze. Jetlag.

Alois, to Ashe’s surprise and gratitude, catches on that Ashe is drifting off. The head chef excuses them and leads Ashe to his new room. “Get some shuteye kid. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at 6am sharp!” He salutes and leaves Ashe to his own devices.

Swaying, Ashe pushes his suitcase somewhere to the side, shucks off his shoes and clambers into bed. Sleep claims him with open arms.

-

He wakes up in the dead of night. Unease whispers across his skin, intangible yet impossibly tactile. The reality of his surroundings knocks the air right out of him. Insomnia tugs his ear to her lips, murmuring stinging reminders of how clumsy he is, how plain he is, how audacious he is for thinking he had any right to come here. He pulls away, giving up on sleep. He leaves her behind in bed and locks the door behind him.

Ashe walks the length of the hallway, silently pads down the staircase and enters the kitchen. There is a tall, broad figure cooking at one of the stations. Surprise tumbles from his lips before he can stop it—surely only ghosts are out at this time of night! The man, or possible apparition, whips around at the sound. Ashe ducks his head apologetically. “Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t expect anyone else in the kitchen.”

The initial shock slides off his companion’s face and morphs into an expression Ashe can’t quite place. His eyes, trained on Ashe’s face, search and scour; his body, a bow pulled too taut, braces for something. Ashe fidgets, nervously opening his fingers up in a sort of, “What now?” gesture. The man remains tightlipped so after a beat, he barrels on. “Do you mind if I join you? I usually bake when I can’t sleep." 

His companion’s eyes narrow in disbelief. The continued scrutiny makes pools out of Ashe’s armpits. He takes the lack of response as a no, choosing an answer before he drowns in his own sweat. Clearing his throat, he gets to work. He pulls out flour, sugar, and several other ingredients from their respective shelves. Alois didn’t say anything about using the kitchen for personal purposes; and though it may not be the right thing to do, to Ashe, baking is as crucial as air. Baking is precise and predictable. There’s an order to it and he can control the variables. It’s a balm for his nerves when the world is capricious, tossing him around like a salad. He’ll just apologize later.

He engrosses himself in measuring the dry ingredients, merrily humming a Christmas that his little sister altered: “Dashing through the snow, on a pair of broken skis, over the hills we go, crashing into trees.”

“The lyrics are more morbid than I remember.”

It takes a second for Ashe to process that the other man said something, let alone the words. “Pardon?” Based on first impressions, Ashe had fully prepared to spend the rest of his time baking in silence. He stops sifting flour and glances at his kitchen mate. The other man is leaning against the counter, chest angled towards him invitingly. Ashe mirrors him and takes this moment to do some scrutinizing of his own. The man is a giant, dwarfing Ashe in height by several inches if not by a foot. He sports a hefty build featuring square shoulders, a broad chest, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and soft white locks pulled back into a ponytail. He is no ghost; he is a marble statue come to life, each feature chiseled painstakingly by a revered artisan of the past. Ashe’s mouth goes dry.

“The lyrics. They are more macabre than the version I was taught.”

“Oh!” Ashe chuckles, finally gathering his bearings. He turns back to the safety of his ingredients, trying to shake off the spell he’s been put under. “My sister. She’s a bit of a wordsmith. Used to make our adoptive father crunch up his nose and he’d tickle her until she sang the friendlier version.” Ashe’s lips draw up into a small smile.

“You sound fond of them.” There is a whirring noise coming from a stand mixer. The man must’ve started cooking again too.

Ashe peeks at him once more before going back to cracking an egg into a medium-sized bowl. “Father was a great man. We used to spend the holidays together yearly before he passed. Usually around this time I’d be with my siblings, but they’ve outgrown their big brother.” He sighs at that, beating an egg as if it were the culprit responsible for his siblings aging.

“Sorry for your loss. On both accounts.”

“Oh no, it was a while ago. Not even the strongest knight could stop the passage of time. I apologize for prattling on about it.” He hesitates a moment, gathering his courage. “I’m Ashe by the way. Ashe Duran. May as well tell you since I’ve given you my whole life story.” He laughs sheepishly. “You are?”

Again, there’s that probing look from the other man. His gaze is palpable, a colony of ants crawling across Ashe’s skin. Ashe is about to retract his question but the man speaks. “My name is Ded—” he stops, tongue catching in his mouth. He swallows thickly before completing his sentence. “Dedrick.”

Ashe takes note of the delay but doesn’t bring it up. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s not everyday someone so striking bothers talking to someone as plain as him. “Well Dedrick, it’s nice to meet you. I just started working here so I’m still learning the ropes while subbing for my friend. It’s a bit daunting, cooking for royalty and all, but I haven’t challenged myself in a while so I’m going to give it all I’ve got. How about you? Have you been here long?”

Dedrick takes a while to respond, and when he does, the words come out stilted and awkward. “You could say that.” He doesn’t offer more. He’s either not interested in small talk or he’s not a man of many words. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s lost interest in a conversation with Ashe so he takes it in stride.

Instead of prompting more conversation, he pops the batter in a pan and sets a timer for the oven. He beats some butter, adds powdered sugar, vanilla and heavy cream. Then he adjusts the level of heavy cream as he folds the ingredients together to ensure the buttercream ends up light and fluffy.

A delicious smell creeps across the kitchen and demands his attention with the tenacity of a child. Ashe answers the call; he walks over to the other man, still folding his buttercream, and asks, “What are you making?” 

“Food.” The delivery is very matter of fact.

Ashe snorts, not necessarily in a mean-spirited way, but he’s just unable to help himself. His assessment of Dedrick changes with every interaction—he’s starting to see a bit of the seasonings that make up the man. Dedrick’s words are cold, yes, but if Ashe had to pick a flavor, hostility isn’t it. Awkward has the appropriate mouthfeel. Ashe can work with that. Their conversation is like dough: it will either rise or lay flat until a little more encouragement is added.

Ashe moves a little closer, sighing happily at the colorful array of delicately sliced vegetables. They are evenly browned and currently being garnished with a rich tomato sauce. The dish looks as gorgeous as it smells. “Where did you learn to cook?”

Dedrick continues drizzling the dressing onto the plate. “My mother taught me when I was younger.” He dips the ladle into the sauce again but Ashe’s timer chooses that exact moment to go off and the bigger man startles. His hand slips, the ladle clattering onto the countertop and splattering red all over his shirt and sleeve. Somehow Ashe escapes unscathed.

“Oh Goddess!” Ashe sets his bowl on the table and snatches the timer from the counter, smothering it quickly with his bare hands. He rushes to turn off the oven and then grabs paper towels in a torrent of movement, passing Dedrick a few sheets before getting to work on the man’s sleeves. Dedrick is quiet, watching Ashe with a puzzled expression. Ashe doesn’t notice, instead successfully embedding the tomato sauce even deeper into the fabric. Heat radiates from his cheeks as he confesses, “I think I’ve made it worse. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“No...that’s alright.” Dedrick clears his throat. “It was my fault for dropping the ladle. Did I get any on you?”

Ashe shakes his head with a sheepish grin, looking up from Dedrick’s sleeve. “I completely forgot that I set the timer! The smell of your dish distracted me. I’ve never seen or smelled anything like it. I…” He trails off, suddenly very aware of their proximity. Ashe’s heart does a weird fluttery thing.

“...You?”

“Huh?”

“You were saying?”

His ears join his face in temperature. Scalding. He fixates on the first thing that comes to mind to save face. “I...I must insist on getting you a change of clothes! Come with me!” It’s a rather funny sight, Ashe _forcing_ a man who is an entire foot taller than him somewhere, but Dedrick doesn’t resist. Ashe interprets it as a green light to do as he pleases. He guides Dedrick up the stairs, past the hallway and unlocks the door.

“It’ll be just a second.” He unzips his suitcase and starts rummaging through it, trying to find which folded lump is his spare sleep shirt. Finally he finds what he’s looking for and pulls it valiantly from the pile. He passes it to Dedrick, who appraises it with unexpected gentleness. Somewhere buried under all that stoicism is a softness that Ashe has managed to draw out. He sighs contentedly, tucking that expression away for a rainy day. His bliss is short lived.

“I put out for Santa?”

No, no, no, no, _no_. This is too many mishaps in one day. He meant to give Dedrick the shirt that read, “I’m on the nice list.” He lunges to take the shirt back but Dedrick pulls it up and out of reach. It is wholly unfair.

“You’re peculiar Ashe Duran.” He says, something akin to a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll return this another day. Now if you’ll excuse me.” With that, he walks out of the room and down the hall.

Mortified, Ashe waits an hour or two before he goes to fetch his cake.


	2. THE EX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ashe?”
> 
> The man in question freezes. Something crunches: it’s either the puff pastry he has in his hand or the sound of his heart. The voice takes him back to places he’s tried to avoid in the past few months. It slides across his skin, both scraping at and caressing him in the way that memories do.
> 
> He turns his head slowly in the hopes the excruciatingly sluggish pace will make the redhead go away. “Sylvain.”

The rest of the week goes smoothly without incident. For that, Ashe is grateful. He’s settled into a routine now: prepping the kitchen in the mornings, cooking up a storm in the afternoons, and exploring a little either around the palace or the palace grounds in the evenings if he’s not on call. He hasn’t seen his baking partner since the first night and each day that passes chips away at his hope of ever seeing the man and his embarrassing T-shirt again.

Ashe doesn’t have much time to dwell on it. Nobles have started filtering in slowly over the past few days, no doubt to discuss with the royal family various details in regards to the Ball. Mercedes had not been joking when she said the kitchen would need a lot of help during the holidays.

All this is in preparation for the annual Winter Charity Ball, an event raising money for causes such as the upkeep of the royal orphanage and soup kitchen. Nobles from Faerghus and Kingdoms beyond are invited. It is also one of the very few times that the palace doors are open to the press during the year. This means in the few weeks leading up to it, there are breakfasts to be served, biscuits and snacks for high tea, lunch buffets, and grand dinners.

Thus far, Ashe has managed to avoid any run-ins with royalty and nobility, hidden behind the safety of an oven or a stovetop. Today, however, there is a greater demand for pastries during tea time than usual and he’s the only one not manning a station, so out he goes.

He takes a breath and opens the door to one of the sitting rooms while balancing pastries with his other arm. The room itself is smaller than some of the other spaces in the palace, but it is still three times the size of his apartment back home. One of four modeled after the seasons, the current room is Spring. Paintings featuring little cherubs throwing flower petals and frolicking in meadows deck the walls from floor to ceiling. Nobles chat amongst themselves, dressed in gorgeous silks, ruffles and form-flattering suits.

Ashe concentrates on keeping one foot in front of the other until he finally reaches the food spread. He starts to refill the pastry stand, delicately placing cream puffs and macarons in an arrangement that resembles flowers. Sort of. Perhaps if you looked at them from an angle. A very specific angle.

“Ashe?”

The man in question freezes. Something crunches: it’s either the puff pastry he has in his hand or the sound of his heart. The voice takes him back to places he’s tried to avoid in the past few months. It slides across his skin, both scraping at and caressing him in the way that memories do.

He turns his head slowly in the hopes the excruciatingly sluggish pace will make the redhead go away. “Sylvain.” He tries to be cordial, but his feelings haven’t cooked thoroughly and he’s still very raw. The words come out in more of a hiss, “What are you doing here?”

“Hey now, that’s not a very nice way to greet an old friend now is it?” Sylvain is grinning from ear to ear.

Of course his old flame found his way to the palace. He was a media darling, always in the papers for his high profile dating escapades. If there was a party, Sylvain would be there—either with eye-candy or as it.

Sylvain’s grin fades a touch when Ashe doesn’t return it and the silence stretches. He tries again. “I’m with her, Lady Cornelia Arnim.” He gestures to a woman over in the corner who is chatting with some lords and ladies, before leisurely throwing his hands behind his head. Cornelia is voluptuous with legs for days, one of which is on display via a very high slit. And she is beautiful, in a frighteningly dangerous way. A snake coiled to strike. Ashe worries his lip, suddenly acutely aware of how much shape he lacks in comparison.

Sylvain’s love, if you could even call it that, was ephemeral. A mayfly. He promised forever, only to leave you dead on the water, pregnant with despair. It was common knowledge that he tore through lovers, yet Ashe had found himself ensnared despite it all. He hadn’t been enough. Sylvain’s eye had wandered, shattering Ashe’s heart as it left.

Insecurity, jealousy and regret are a dreadful combination of flavors. His eyes water as he gags on the taste. “A noble. It suits you.” Ashe ekes out, shoving the ruined pastry in his pant pocket and continuing to refill the display with the others that haven’t fallen victim to his emotions. It doesn’t help that Sylvain still looks good after all these months, his teal tux a second skin, highlighting those broad shoulders and sculpted form.

“Well, since she’s rich she tends to not really care about my status as heir to the Gautier fortune.” Sylvain shrugs.

The implication stings, and Ashe quickly finishes plating the rest of the desserts before turning to go.

Sylvain’s ability to read the mood is as sharp as ever. He grabs Ashe’s arm, an apology written all over his face. “That’s not what I meant.” Then, “I heard from Mercedes that you’re doing well. Wasn’t expecting to actually see you here though.”

“I'll make sure to uphold your expectations from now on.” He shakes Sylvain off and quickly escapes into the kitchen before the other man can get in another word.

He sets the tray down on one of the counters and yells over the cacophony of the kitchen. “Alois, um, would it be alright if I took a walk?”

“Go for it!” Alois yells back, though truth be told, Alois is almost always yelling with that booming voice of his. Ashe salutes in gratitude and grabs his jacket from the coat rack. It’s a long walk, but he goes down the hill, past security, and makes his way into town.

Ashe doesn’t usually brood, but seeing Sylvain again is jarring. The world is off kilter by at least 2 degrees. He trudges down the cobblestone paths, gazing vacantly at storefronts. He catches his reflection in one of the mirrors. He’s wearing a scowl. He takes his two index fingers and pushes the edges of his lips up. It doesn’t quite have the same effect as when he does this with his siblings, so he tries raising his eyebrows. He parts his lips and shows his teeth but all it does is turn his scowl into a grimace. Coupled with his eyebrows, he just looks a size short of crazy. He huffs some stray strands of hair out of his face before trying again. It looks a little more natural the second time around but he also happens to make eye contact with a patron inside the store.

He turns away immediately, covering his face in shame. He makes for a quick getaway but the other person is faster. “Ashe?” The bell on the door jingles to the sound of his name.

He turns around and in a few strides the stranger reaches him. It’s not until the man briefly pulls down his sunglasses that some semblance of recognition flickers across Ashe’s face. “Dedrick? What are you doing here?” There’s a vague sense of déjà vu, though with Dedrick it’s embarrassment and attraction rather than anger. “And what’s with the sunglasses in December?”

“It’s so I don’t get recognized.”

Ashe doesn’t compute. “Is the palace staff not allowed out in town? My boss didn’t say anything about that.”

Dedrick wears the same look he stared Ashe down with the first night they met. Scrutiny. It relaxes into a look of contemplation. Any forthcoming explanation, however, is cut off when someone knocks rather forcefully into Ashe.

“Watch yourself!” The stranger spits out before shoving their hands into their pockets and hastily walking away.

Ashe wobbles in place. “Whoa!”

“Are you alright?” Dedrick sets his hands on Ashe’s shoulders, anchoring him.

“Yes I believe so.” He smiles up at Dedrick, who removes his hands, and dusts himself off. Ashe freezes—something is off. He feels around his pockets again with an increased urgency. They are empty, save the crushed pastry from earlier. He glances at the rude stranger’s back, his eyes widening as the dots connect. “Hey wait a second! My wallet!”

What used to be a brisk walk turns into a full on sprint. Ashe runs after the pickpocket, despite the increasingly insurmountable distance. The head start is a deadly advantage. Ashe sees the window of opportunity shuttering, until Dedrick shoots past him and yanks them open. In an instant he’s tackled the thief to the ground.

“Ow! Okay, okay, I’m sorry! Let me go, mister!”

By the time Ashe reaches the duo, Dedrick has already wrestled Ashe’s wallet back. “I believe this is yours.”

“Thank you Dedrick. I appreciate it.” Ashe tucks his wallet back into his pocket.

He takes a good look at the thief. They are sitting on the ground, legs splayed out and nursing their wrist. Ashe sighs. It’s just a teenager. A nasty scratch blooms on their cheek from skidding on the cobblestone. He kneels down and offers a handkerchief to stay the blood. “Here. You're bleeding.”

The teen looks at him with suspicion but reaches to grab the offering anyway. They hiss and drop it, having extended the arm with the bad wrist. Ashe furrows his brow and takes the thief’s hand. He gently turns it this way and that, despite the petulant vocalizations of pain. He tuts. “It’s not broken, though it may be slightly sprained. Sorry about that. My friend here is quite big and it seems he doesn’t know his own strength.” He looks up at Dedrick apologetically.

Dedrick looks a little perplexed. “I may have been a little vigorous in taking down the _thief_.”

The kid bristles. “I’m not a thief! I was just...borrowing it. My little brothers are hungry. I was gonna give it right back after.”

Ashe softens at that. He’s been in those shoes, almost exactly. Just swap out one little brother for a sister and Ashe would be staring at his doppelgänger. He reaches for his wallet, notices the phyllo flakes from the delicacy still in his pocket, and offers both the pastry and a few bills. Without a word, the kid snatches them up immediately and takes off. Ashe doesn’t give chase this time. He picks up his handkerchief and straightens up.

“Why did you do that?” Dedrick asks, while staring at the retreating figure. Curiosity lines his question, rather than judgement.

Ashe laughs sheepishly. “Because we’re not so different, that kid and I. If we rewind back a decade or so, you would’ve seen me doing the same thing.” He starts walking and Dedrick falls in step with him. He looks up at the sky as he continues, “I mentioned my adoptive father before, but I don’t think I talked about my birth parents. They...they died quite early from illness so it fell on me to take care of my siblings. I tried to make money honestly, I really did, but it was hard to find a place that would hire a child. I didn’t have options. I stole from shops, from strangers, from anyone and anything I could get my hands on. I knew it was wrong, but seeing my siblings smile for the first time since my parents' deaths...I’d steal from the Goddess herself if it meant I could keep those expressions on their faces.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been a very hard time.”

“It was, but we’re all the closer for it, even if they think they’ve outgrown their big brother.”

Dedrick takes a breath and exhales slowly. “That being said Ashe, the kid could have been lying.” There’s a hesitation in his words, almost a reluctance to share such an uncharitable thought.

Ashe shakes his head. “Sure, but I’d rather risk a lie than a family going hungry. I can’t control their circumstances, but what I can control is how I react to our intertwined fates. By offering a hand to someone in need, I’ve added a little order to the unpredictable nature of this world. Maybe it’s naive of me, but I want to leave the world better than I found it. I suppose I got that from Lonato.

“Funny story, actually. I broke into his house and got caught. It was supposed to be a quick job, in and out, but I got distracted. There were cookbooks open on the table and though I couldn’t read at the time, the images of tarts and cakes...well, it amazed me that food could be more than rotting scraps from a dumpster. Imagine his surprise coming home and seeing a stranger with their nose stuck deeply in his books and their pockets overflowing with his valuables!

“Lonato was a just man, like a knight. It came as no surprise when he had me tried in court and sent to juvie for the crime of breaking and entering, and thieving. What I didn’t expect was for him to be waiting on the other side of the gate, when I was released, with my brother and sister as our new adoptive father. He took us in and made it so that we never had to starve again. He changed our fate. Gave us a better life.”

Dedrick looks at him in a contemplative silence.

Ashe takes that as an indicator that he’s been prattling on too long. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk so much again.” He stammers nervously and stares at the ground.

“I like listening to you speak.” Ashe looks up at that. “Do not take my silence as displeasure. I simply am not very skilled in conversation.”

“Well, we can work on that.” He smiles and gets a small one in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes chapter 2.  
> I really enjoy reworking supports and things that happen in-game into modern AUs. Hope y'all don't mind the creative liberties I took here.
> 
> Discuss with me here (via comment) or on Twitter at @shoppaibitch.


	3. SEIZE THE CARP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would you like to hang out sometime?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “On purpose, I mean. To get to know each other. Or practice conversing. And such. If you have time of course.” He probably should have stopped after the first sentence, or the second, but his nerves have their foot on the pedal and his motor-mouth is on full throttle. Dedrick steals his breath away, which is funny considering he’s the one who used to steal, and it just wouldn’t make sense for someone who shines so brilliantly to want to spend time with someone so dull. How could a simple invitation ever be enough?
> 
> Dedrick pauses and the surprise is clear on his face. A dusting of pink settles on his cheeks. “Yes.” He smiles and time all but stops. “I’d like that.”

A few days later there is a knock on his door. It’s probably Alois, so Ashe answers the door in his sleep shirt and shorts. The air suddenly tastes of regret the moment he sees Dedrick standing on the other side. “Dedrick!” He immediately presses himself against the door, as if it will hide the bareness of his thighs.

Dedrick catches on quickly. He averts his eyes, which frankly isn’t hard seeing as to how he’s an entire foot taller than Ashe, but he does so all the same and asks, “Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all!” Ashe’s voice wobbles so he tacks on a smile at the end to sell the message that he truly is not bothered, despite being woefully underdressed. It’s not every day that Dedrick seeks him out.

The rare occurrence inspires him to do what Mercedes once advised: seize the carp because fish rarely bite twice (Annette had bust a gut laughing at the butchered idiom).

“I brought you your shirt. I apologize for the delay.”

It smells of earth and spices, a scent so uniquely Dedrick. His heart skips a beat. Dedrick must have worn the shirt then! Ashe can barely contain his giddiness as he sets the shirt on top of the dresser. “Thank you Dedrick.” He hesitates, reshaping and remolding his question in a way that isn’t too intrusive. Dedrick is a private man after all. Teasing information out of him is like sugar work: it requires finesse, attention, and delicate handling lest it crack. “Did you have to come a long way to give this to me?”

“No.”

Curses. Ashe’s stab in the dark is for naught; Dedrick sidesteps artfully, yet again answering but not _answering_ anything about himself. They stand there in an awkward silence before Dedrick turns to go.

 _Seize the carp_. “Would you like to hang out sometime?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “On purpose, I mean. To get to know each other. Or practice conversing. And such. If you have time of course.” He probably should have stopped after the first sentence, or the second, but his nerves have their foot on the pedal and his motor-mouth is on full throttle. Dedrick steals his breath away, which is funny considering he’s the one who used to steal, and it just wouldn’t make sense for someone who shines so brilliantly to want to spend time with someone so dull. How could a simple invitation ever be enough?

Dedrick pauses and the surprise is clear on his face. A dusting of pink settles on his cheeks. “Yes.” He smiles and time all but stops. “I’d like that.”

Ashe’s mouth goes dry. He covertly pinches himself. Okay, not a dream then. He tempers his enthusiasm, trying to keep his voice level. “Great! I’ll actually have time on Wednesday since most of the pastry prep will be done by Tuesday evening. How does your schedule look?” While that isn’t technically true—Ashe will have to stay up quite late the previous night to make up for missing morning prep—Alois tends to be flexible about hours as long as the work is done.

“Hm.” Dedrick taps his chin. “Come to the stables in the morning. I’ll make time.”

“O-okay!”

Dedrick bows. It’s a chivalrous gesture, a page right out of one of Ashe’s childhood fairytales. Ashe’s heart grows wings and flutters against his chest. “Goodnight Ashe.”

“Goodnight Dedrick.” He closes the door behind him and slides down to the ground. Goddess. He did it! He’s going on a date with Dedrick!

Perhaps he can finally learn more about the man. There isn’t much to go off of, and Ashe would never pry, but Dedrick has to be someone important. He can rearrange his schedule however he wishes, he keeps his job details close to his chest and he tries not to be recognized...could he be secret service? That would explain his skill in tackling the thief. The sunglasses and his tight-lipped nature suit the profession as well.

 _I’ll make time._ Adrenaline and happiness surge together, pushing his heart rate to new heights. Ashe covers his face with his arms and breathes into his hand. What a cool thing to say.

He fires off a quick text to Mercedes, “Hope you’re having a great holiday! I seized the carp today!” and tosses the phone somewhere on the floor. He hugs himself, lips stretched in a radiant grin that could challenge the sun, and stays like that until his heartbeat settles.

-

As expected, Alois gives him the greenlight and he has Wednesday morning off. He fields questions from both the head chef and Mercedes, describing the mystery man as tall, dark, and handsome: as generic as he can describe someone as spellbinding as Dedrick, but also not a lie. He doesn’t go into full detail out of paranoia that the two will attempt to meddle, but also because whatever it is that is going on between him and Dedrick is just starting to blossom. Overwatering or over nourishing may kill it.

Ashe still doesn’t have any idea where to find Dedrick other than through happenstance, so the vague direction of “Come to the stables in the morning,” has him in a tizzy. What if he comes too late and Dedrick leaves because he’s tired of waiting? He doesn’t even have his number to ask or follow up!

He hesitantly steps into the stables around eight, sees no one, takes a step backward out of the stables and then a step back in. It’s silent, save for the occasional horse whinny. Ashe starts fidgeting with his hands.

“Good morning.”

Ashe whirls around. “Dedrick!” Goddess, the man must have walked out of an equestrian magazine. He’s wearing all grey, with knee high riding boots, form fitting breeches that leave very little to the imagination, and a double breasted jacket embroidered with a trim resembling hearts looped together. His white hair is pulled back into a neat plait and a helmet is cocked on his hip. The sun blesses him with her touch and he glows. A divine being.

Ashe looks down at his puffer jacket and jean combination and sighs. “Good morning.” He can’t quite meet Dedrick’s eyes so he opts to stare at his boots instead.

“Were you waiting long?”

“N-no, I just got here.” Dedrick steps closer and the shoes in Ashe’s field of vision are replaced by two hands offering a helmet.

“Do not worry. You dressed appropriately. Long pants prevent chafing.”

“O-oh. Thank you.” Ashe smiles despite himself: Dedrick is quite observant, even if he’s interpreted Ashe’s self-consciousness about looking derelict as concern over dressing appropriately for riding. Ashe takes the helmet and adjusts the straps so it sits comfortably on his head.

During that time, Dedrick walks past him into a stall with a bald faced chestnut horse. It nuzzles into him and he whispers faint nothings at it while patting it gently. Ashe’s chest tightens. He’s jealous of a horse. Goddess.

“Have you ridden before?” Dedrick asks in the middle of his ministrations. Ashe shakes his head. The taller man makes a noise of contemplation and heads into a storeroom of sorts. He comes back out with an ornate two-seater saddle with engravings of lions and the royal crest on it. “This will do for today then.” He slides the saddle onto the horse’s back and straps it into place, all the while running his fingers along the horse’s golden mane. After equipping the bridle and making sure everything else is secured, he brings the horse out of the stall and signals for Ashe to follow with a tilt of his head.

Once they are outside, he gestures to the horse. “Ashe, meet Dimitri.” The horse bows its head in greeting as if it understands. “Animals have never taken to me. I have heard that my face is unsettling so that may be the cause, but Dimitri has never given me trouble. He is an odd one, but loyal, and I trust him with my life.”

Unsettlingly beautiful, Ashe almost says, but he bites his tongue. Instead, he bows back at the horse and says, “Hello Dimitri. Pleasure to meet you.” It must be the correct thing to do because Dimitri whinnies and tosses his head happily.

“I think he approves.” There’s a twinkle of something akin to mischief in Dedrick’s eyes. He’s warm, much warmer than he has been in their past interactions together. It may be winter, but Ashe is thawing.

Ashe skims his fingers down the length of the ornamentation resting delicately along the horse’s neck. “Do all the horses wear gear with the royal insignia on them?”

“No. Only those of the royal family.” There’s a long, heavy pause. “The Prince and I are on friendly terms. He lets me ride his horses to make sure they are....adequate.”

“I see.” Ashe breathes, mentally pinning another piece of evidence to the secret service theory corkboard. “He seems like a nice guy.”

Dedrick coughs. “Yes, so they say. Shall we?” He offers his hand to Ashe, helping him climb up the step ladder and onto the horse.

Once Ashe settles, Dedrick swings one leg over the horse effortlessly and sits right behind him. Ashe’s back presses right against the other’s chest and they are thigh to thigh. Goddess have mercy. Ashe sits ramrod straight in an attempt to avoid touching Dedrick anymore than strictly necessary.

That plan promptly falls apart when Dedrick grabs the reins, resting his arms around Ashe’s waist. “Are you alright?” He asks, leaning in to whisper into Ashe’s ear.

Ashe’s complexion goes from as white as snow to red as mistletoe. Dedrick has to be doing this on purpose given the sheer amount of times he makes Ashe weak at the knees. He nods, not trusting his voice to sound anything but prepubescent at this time.

“Good. Hold onto the reins.” With that, he gently tugs on the leather getting Dimitri’s attention, and then squeezes with his thighs to get the horse moving. Ashe makes a valiant effort to keep his internal running commentary on the strength of those arms and legs to a minimum.

The ride is a calm and scenic one. They move past the stable, further away from the palace, and towards the forest. There is barely any green to be seen; the trees are coated in white frosting. It’s cold. Ashe finds himself relaxing into Dedrick’s touch, the sway of the horse and the bigger man’s body heat abating his fight or flight senses. The crunch of the snow and the occasional bird call is the only sound that permeates the area.

Eventually they reach a clearing and stop in front of a cabin. Dedrick helps Ashe off the horse and ties it to a tree. Ashe laments the loss of heat, shivering in place uselessly until Dedrick ushers them into the cabin.

The interior is quite rustic—a complete contrast from the ornate decor of the palace. It’s a lot closer to the environments Ashe is used to and his shoulders relax a fraction. There are taxidermy of various mammals and oil paintings of people lining the walls, a vaulted ceiling, a grandfather clock, and a nice balance of wood and stone that make up the interior. Ashe’s head swivels around, trying to take in everything, but Dedrick hurries him along. He looks flustered and anxious, a stark contrast from his earlier demeanor. He uses his big frame to block Ashe’s view, especially when they come across the aforementioned works of art, and pulls him towards the two armchairs in front of the fireplace. He hands Ashe some matches. “Could...you tend to the fire? I’ll be right back.” White puffs of air punctuate his words. He sounds distracted.

Ashe nods. While he strikes the match and starts up a fire, he doesn’t see Dedrick hastily taking down a few paintings and pushing picture frames facedown around the cabin. So when Dedrick comes back a short while later, sweat on his brow and breathing a little heavily, Ashe pushes up onto his knees and leans in to place his hand on the other man’s forehead. “Are you alright Dedrick?” He frowns. “You don’t have a fever but you’re awfully sweaty.”

Dedrick takes Ashe’s hand from his forehead and rests it in his hands. “I’m fine.” Ashe is familiar with this flavor: denial.

His frown deepens. “Are you sure?” He frets despite Dedrick’s assurances. He takes his hand back, procures a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe off the sweat, and mutters possible diagnoses all the while.

Dedrick grabs Ashe’s hand from his forehead again, holding it a bit more firmly now to prevent another escape. “Yes.” He takes his thumb and runs it along Ashe’s fingers. The pad of his finger is a bit coarse, and it leaves a tingling aftertaste along Ashe’s skin. “And you?”

Ashe swallows. “Me?”

“Are you alright?”

“I, uh.” He stammers. Now he’s the distracted one. “Yes?”

“Are you sure?” There’s a hint of a smile on Dedrick’s lips.

Ashe huffs out something in between a laugh and a sigh of relief. “You’re teasing me! You aren’t so bad at conversation after all.”

“Perhaps not.”

Ashe sits back down and leans gently against Dedrick. He sighs contentedly. They sit there in silence for a bit, shoulder to shoulder, next to the crackling of the fire.

“Hey Dedrick?”

“Hn?” The bigger man shifts a fraction.

“Thanks for bringing me here. It’s nice to be away from all the…” Ashe makes a sweeping gesture, at a loss for the word.

“The pomp? The ceremony?”

He nods. “I have a hard time feeling comfortable in places like that. I’m not used to this sort of thing at all. Especially around royalty and nobility, I just feel out of place. I’m always afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. They’re the people who keep the peace, make laws, and keep common folk like you and me safe. We depend on people like them. Lonato said in return, commoners repay that through taxes and respect. In a way, I feel like I’m disrespecting them by being here. I know I don’t belong. I can almost hear them talking about how plain I am and wondering who let me in.”

“Only the ignorant would chatter about such nonsense. Status, birthright...these are all things out of your control. It is wasteful to spend time dwelling on such matters.”

Ashe winces at the reproachful tone. “I can’t help how I feel. I know I can’t control everything, that certain things are out of my control, but it still makes me feel helpless.” His hand curls into a fist in Dedrick’s palm. “I didn’t have any power as a kid. The universe took what it wanted and I couldn’t even fight back.”

Dedrick takes his other hand and uncurls Ashe’s fist. “I did not mean to lecture you. You are not lacking in skill or character. Your control of spices and flavors are masterful. You belong in any kitchen, even a royal one and by extension, the palace that it is attached to. Did you not say you were going to ‘give it all you’ve got’? Where has that man gone?”

“O-oh.” Ashe flushes, the unexpected praise too much to handle. Dedrick says such things so easily and in such a straightforward manner. It makes his opinions sound like facts, facts that Ashe could commit to memory and accept as part of his worldview. “He’s still here. He just gets lost in the woods sometimes.” He chuckles, a bit embarrassed. “Speaking of here though, where are we?”

The pause that precedes any answer of Dedrick’s no longer surprises Ashe. “We’re in my private study. If you are warmed up, I would like to show you something.”

Dedrick stands, pulling Ashe along with him, and guides him to a door at the back of the cabin. Instead of leading outside, it opens up into a lush greenhouse. It’s a small one, but there are flowers blooming all the same.

“You told me a lot about yourself in the village. I thought it would be fair if I shared something about myself.” Dedrick looks away as he says this, glancing at everything but Ashe. His voice trails off at the end, his bravado escaping along with his breath as he exhales.

These minute glimpses of Dedrick’s vulnerability and tenderness are so rare Ashe would bottle them up and collect them if he could. The Goddess is kind for letting him witness these private moments, this side of Dedrick that isn’t common knowledge to the world. He takes both of Dedrick’s hands into his own and squeezes them. That draws the latter’s attention and when they make eye contact, Ashe bursts into a blinding smile. “I would love to learn more about you Dedrick.”

Dedrick blushes. “That is...good to hear.” He lightly squeezes Ashe’s hands back.

“I never would have expected gardening to be a hobby of yours. What type of flowers do you grow here?”

“There is not much. Currently there are freesias, amaryllis, cacti, violets, and some carnivorous plants.” Dedrick points them out as they walk by. They spend some time discussing flowers and the various ins and outs of gardening. Dedrick makes sure to stop and linger around the violets once he hears that Ashe loves them the most.

After returning to the cabin, they bask in each other’s company for a while longer until the grandfather clock loudly pronounces the hour. Ashe regretfully informs Dedue that he needs to get going in order to make it to work on time. The latter works quickly to extinguish the fire and lock up. Once outside, he helps hoist Ashe up onto the horse, and settles in right behind them. They take off.

On their ride back, they cross paths with a carriage. It slows to a stop as they near each other and Ashe holds back a groan. Inside are Sylvain and Cornelia.

She looks absolutely smug every time Ashe sees her. Perhaps it’s a permanent expression. She waves her hand and calls out, “Prince Molinaro—”

“—Is attending to his Princely duties.” Dedrick cuts in sharply and forcefully. It’s dreadfully awkward, like an actor being fed a line. Everyone is taken aback and Ashe can feel Dedrick tense up behind him.

A look passes between the two in the carriage and Dedrick. Confusion bakes into a wry smirk on Cornelia, a promise of something wicked folded in between her lips. Ashe’s hands instinctively curl into fists. That woman is trouble.

“Why yes, of course. Thank you for informing us.” Her voice has the tone that promises they’ll be discussing the matter later, though what exactly this noblewoman would want with the Help is beyond Ashe’s comprehension. Sylvain just radiates amusement, which adds to the unease churning in Ashe’s stomach. He’s in the front row of a high stakes game and he doesn’t know the rules. Dedrick is tight lipped, the set of his shoulders suggesting he is waiting for Cornelia's next move.

“We’ll see you later then.” She says dismissively, folding her cards for now, and the carriage continues on.

Ashe lets out a shaky breath. He looks to Dedrick with questions in his eyes. “Not your favorite person, I take it?” He laughs nervously. The tension is so thick it could dull even the sharpest of knives.

Dedrick remains stone faced. He grunts and finally answers, “Do not concern yourself with her.”

The mood is soured. The ride back is just as silent as it was before but rife with friction. Ashe itches with the need to fix it, to apologize, to salvage the date, even though he’s done nothing wrong. When they arrive at the stables and Dedrick helps him slide off the horse again, he hangs onto Dedrick instead of letting go when he reaches the ground.

He stares up into his eyes, green as the leaves in the greenhouse, and musters all the sincerity he owns. “Thank you for today Dedrick. I really enjoyed getting to know you; thank you for sharing a part of you with me. I hope we have more days like these.” He maintains eye contact despite the shyness tugging at him to avert his gaze.

Dedrick blinks, overwhelmed by the genuineness radiating from the other man. “I am not used to such honesty.” He retracts one of his hands from Ashe’s grip. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, eyes fixating on some point past Ashe before speaking. “But as we are being honest, it pleases me to hear you say such things. If it truly makes you happy, I would be glad to spend more time together.”

“That’s a promise then.” Ashe hooks his pinky with Dedrick’s, shakes it tight, and takes off before the last vestiges of his courage dissipates. He’s full to the brim with warmth and happiness—they ended on a good note! There’s a skip in his step as he gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeee, they went on a date!  
> Things escalate (read: smol nsfw) a little next chapter ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> Discuss with me here (via comment) or on Twitter at @shoppaibitch.


	4. THE SOUFFLÉ INCIDENT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe walks in on Dedrick cooking soufflé pancakes. He dips a finger into one of the newly formed peaks and brings it to his lips to taste, pausing mid-action when Ashe interrupts.
> 
> “That looks lovely Dedrick!”
> 
> The other man turns and greets him warmly. Ashe melts.
> 
> Dedrick’s baritone voice echoes throughout the empty kitchen. “Would you like to try some?” He gestures, reaching out with his hand that still has the cream on it.
> 
> It’s an innocent question, at least, it seems like one, but Ashe’s stomach flutters.

Ashe walks in on Dedrick cooking soufflé pancakes. He’s got the batter cooking in tall cylinders on the stovetop and is currently working on making the whipped cream over an ice bath. He whisks the heavy cream and sugar. They swirl together in a dance, coming to rest in a mountainscape crafted by his meticulous hands. He dips a finger into one of the newly formed peaks and brings it to his lips to taste, pausing mid-action when Ashe interrupts.

“That looks lovely Dedrick!”

The other man turns and greets him warmly. Ashe melts.

Dedrick’s baritone voice echoes throughout the empty kitchen. “Would you like to try some?” He gestures, reaching out with his hand that still has the cream on it.

It’s an innocent question, at least, it seems like one, but Ashe’s stomach flutters. It must be a quick moving infection because it’s spread to his heart now, making it knock loudly about his chest. The smile on Dedrick’s face is starting to slip—oh Goddess, can he hear Ashe’s heart—or does it mean Ashe has been staring at the other man’s outstretched hand for longer than socially acceptable?

Ashe flushes, red coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Salvaging the situation is his top priority so he surges forward and grabs Dedrick’s hand with his own. Goddess, his hands are so tiny compared to the other man. He curls down every finger except the one adorned by cream and then envelops the isolated digit with his mouth, pink lips slightly stretched around it. The cream is truly delicious. Light, fluffy, and not too sweet. He releases Dedrick’s finger with an audible pop and there is a deafening silence as the reality of the situation hits them both.

Ashe’s hands fly to his face.

Dedrick coughs, eyes wide open and cheeks burning. Time crawls to an agonizing pace and both of them stare at Dedrick’s hand, still frozen in its outstretched position. Mortified is an understatement—Ashe can’t take his eyes off his saliva glistening like a lighthouse in the dark, denoting the hazardous coastline that he just crashed into.

“I was going to hand you a spoon.” Dedrick finally offers, taking that accursed finger and pointing to the wooden utensil sitting right next to the ice bath on the counter.

Ashe makes a strangled noise he would later equate to the sound of a dying pterodactyl. He mutters an apology as he turns on his heel and dashes out of the kitchen. He decides right then and there that he will never leave his room ever again.

In the next few days, his daily routine stays the same save for one thing: he completely cuts out baking in the evenings. He wakes up, works, and goes right back to sleep. Dedrick being secret service means he could be anywhere, at any time, so Ashe is constantly on edge. Anytime he sees someone taller than six feet in the corner of his eyes, he either ducks under a table or attempts to hide by flattening himself against a wall to Alois’ ever-growing amusement.

“What are you hiding from?” Alois asks one day, right into Ashe’s unexpecting ear. He jumps about a foot off the ground, nearly dropping the creamy sriracha sauce he’s mixing together for the deep fried avocado hors d'oeuvres.

“Agh! Alois!” He waits for his stomach to return from its newfound position in his throat. “I’m not hiding.” He sounds a bit petulant, even to his own ears. “I, oh,” he sighs, “I’m a bit of a disaster. Yes, I’m hiding. I’m hiding from yesterday’s mistakes.”

Alois quirks an eyebrow. There’s a beat before he starts chuckling. “Fraternizing within the palace already are we?” Ashe doesn’t offer more information but his face matches the color of the mixture in the bowl. Alois is not a smart man, but even he can put two and two together. The head chef smacks Ashe on the back. “There’s no better time than the holidays to find a new love. Just avoid princes and the press and you should be good to go!”

“Thanks, I think?”

“No problem, kid. Also, your avocados are burning.”

Ashe yelps.

-

There is a knock at his door. Ashe doesn’t answer, burrowing further into his covers because the only person who would look for him this early is Alois. Every hour is pun o’clock with that man and even a pushover like Ashe has limits.

“Ashe?”

He frowns, teeth worrying his lower lip. That is definitely not Alois’ voice. No, that voice belongs to a certain someone that Ashe had...that he had...he groans, his mind unhelpfully supplying images of sucking on Dedrick’s finger over and over and over again.

“I’m not here.” He squawks.

Ashe can hear the hesitation on the other side of the door. “That’s not possible Ashe. You just answered.” Ah. Beautiful, literal Dedrick. Of course he’d respond that way.

He glances at the window. It isn’t too far of a drop, not if he ties his sheets together like in the movies.

“I’m coming in.”

“W-wait! Agh!” Ashe rushes to the door in an attempt to lock it before Dedrick turns the knob. He’s too slow. It swings open and Ashe smacks into the taller man’s chest.

“Are you alright?” A hand on his shoulder steadies him.

Ashe groans, shaking his head. “Yes, thank you.” He backs up until he hits the edge of his bed and sags into the mattress.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Dedrick says as he closes the door gently behind him. If Ashe could see past the fog of his own embarrassment, he’d see a blush mirrored on the taller man’s face.

“No? I was just, I was, ah…” The lie sits on his tongue but Ashe swallows it down. “Yes.” He stares at his hands. “I was, no, I still _am_ super ashamed. What I did...it was inappropriate and you must have been uncomfortable. I’m so sorry Dedrick.” He winces, preparing for the onslaught of disgust and disappointment that he absolutely deserves.

Instead, he feels the bed dip next to him and a hand gently but firmly tips his face up. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Ashe searches those eyes for a hint of a lie and finds himself swimming in sincerity.

He opens his mouth to speak but nothing intelligible comes out. He hears white noise, all conscious thought surrendering to the siren in front of him. Something about the way Dedrick says, “There’s _nothing_ to be ashamed of,” belies a deeper meaning, one that shoots straight to his groin.

The taller of the two breaks eye contact first. “I brought you something.” Dedrick clears his throat, perhaps to ease the tension surrounding them. He turns to the side and produces a soufflé pancake that is coated in whipped cream, garnished with fresh strawberries, and plated on white china with a gold trim. It’s a gorgeous distraction, but it whets Ashe’s appetite even more. Talented hands meant dexterous fingers, or so the saying went according to Mercedes. “Have some if you like. I made it fresh this morning.”

“Thank you. I would like that, very much.” Exactly how much is another thing Ashe swallows down. There’s a fine line between flirting and desperation and he’s a master tightrope walker. His stomach is filling to burst with all these unsaid words.

Dedrick cuts into the soufflé with a knife he has prepared and Ashe stares, marveling at how it maintains its structural integrity despite the incision. Dedrick reaches for something, patting around the tray and grunting when his fingers come into contact with nothing but air. “It seems I forgot the fork.” He frowns.

Ashe worries his lip. Just as he’s about to say that it’s okay, Dedrick’s lips quirk up. The taller man takes his thumb and forefinger, delicately pinching the soufflé slice, and presents it in front of Ashe’s mouth.

That little slice carries assumptions of promises to come and Ashe takes the plunge. He parts his lips and accepts Dedrick’s offering, all while staring directly into the other man’s eyes. The flavor is absolutely divine and he makes sure to lap up any remaining cream until Dedrick’s fingers are spotless.

Dedrick is deathly quiet the whole time, but his eyes never stray, intently watching Ashe’s mouth. He doesn’t retract his fingers. Instead, he presses them further in and Ashe stretches his mouth wider to accommodate them. Hot air brushes past them as Ashe pants against the intrusion. Twin trails of saliva follow as Dedrick pulls his fingers out, drags them down past Ashe’s bottom lip, and grabs his chin.

They’re both terribly flushed. “May I kiss you?” Dedrick asks. Ashe tries to nod, but Dedrick’s grip is unyielding. That little hold has so much power. He’s close to unraveling; all Dedrick has to do is pull on a stray thread and he’ll fall apart right here, right now.

The fingers around his chin tighten minutely. A reprimand. “I want to hear you say it.”

Ashe is shaking. Being helpless like this is an indulgence, a pleasure he rarely surrenders to. He had had to take charge and grow up too fast, the lives of his siblings dropped into his hands when he was but a child. He gasps out a “Yes,” aching for directions, praise, and whatever else Dedrick is willing to give him.

“Good, Ashe. That’s good. Let me take care of you.”

He then leans down at an agonizingly slow pace. Ashe is but seconds away from begging; actually he’s already been begging, squirming in his seat with impatience and straining to be touched. He must be a sight to see. When their lips finally meet, it’s a gentle press. Dedrick’s lips are velvety and full but Ashe is absolutely starving at this point so he _bites_. Dedrick growls in response. In an instant he’s devouring Ashe: biting, bruising, and marking every inch of the latter’s mouth.

Ashe slides his fingers through Dedrick’s hair. It dislodges the tie and his ponytail comes undone, filling the air with the fragrance of sandalwood and earth. His locks provide a curtain, hiding the tangling of their tongues from the world. Dedrick pulls him into his lap. Ashe greedily settles in—

“ASHE! MY BOY! Are you awake?” Alois’ voice booms through the door.

Ashe and Dedrick freeze in a panic. Ashe has enough brain cells left to whisper, “Please tell me you locked the door?”

Dedrick shakes his head. Ashe squeezes his eyes shut, lamenting whatever karmic retribution decided that now was the appropriate time to strike. “I’m a-a-awake! J-j-just a minute! Let me make myself presentable!” He calls out while scrambling off Dedrick, commanding him in hushed whispers to hide somewhere, _anywhere_. Dedrick stares at him, making a sweeping motion from his head to his toes as if to ask, “Where do I hide all of this?”

Ashe quickly assesses his room. Goddess why is Dedrick so _big_? He pushes the other male towards the window, yanking the drapes from their hooks and jerking them closed. It’s a ridiculous scenario and there’s absolutely no way they won’t get caught with Dedrick’s feet sticking out of the bottom of the curtains but it’s the best Ashe can come up with given so little time.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Ashe. No need to be shy! I don’t mean to hoard your precious weekend but we have hors d'oeuvres to discuss. Ha!” Alois laughs at his own joke. Then he waltzes into Ashe’s room without a care.

Ashe leaps into bed the moment he hears the door open. His erection and libido have been murdered in cold blood and he stares into the eyes of their killer.

“Guess I really did surprise you. You’re all red in the face. Really Ashe, you don’t have to be so flustered about sleeping in the nude.”

He briefly checks his reflection in the mirror across from his bed. His hair is sticking up every which way, his clothes are in disarray, and his lips are definitely swollen. Thank the Goddess Alois is oblivious. He makes some noncommittal noise which Alois takes as an affirmation. “Now come with me. I whipped up some options and need a second opinion!”

Ashe mouths an apology at the curtains and follows Alois out the door. Hopefully Dedrick doesn’t hold this against him and they can pick up where they left off later.

-

Their next outing is at the training grounds. Dedrick has been suggesting all of their date, er, meetup, er, whatever-this-is spots and Ashe is content to follow along as each location tends to be a two-for-one special: he sees more of the palace that he alone would never have access to and he also gets to learn a bit more about Dedrick.

The training grounds seem to double as an armory. There are instruments upon instruments of death littering the walls and glistening threateningly. Ashe can vividly see the knights of old battling one another for the glory of their factions and the various ways that he can meet his demise if he isn’t careful.

Dedrick’s voice cuts into his reverie. “I was trained from a very young age in various weapons and fighting styles. Do any of these draw your interest?”

Frankly, Dedrick is lethal enough to be a weapon himself and he most definitely draws Ashe’s interest. That would be the Sylvain thing to say. Ashe frowns, squashing down thoughts of his ex vehemently with his foot and busies himself by browsing the selection in front of him. “I’ve never handled any of these before.” There are no modern weapons. Most of them are foreign to Ashe, minus the lances and swords he’s seen in storybooks, but then he spots a bow. He picks it up and weighs it in his hands. “I’ve done archery once in gym class. Is that enough to put on my resume?”

“It depends on the position you are applying for.” It works as a joke but Dedrick’s delivery is quite serious and it’s hard to tell which it is when the man is walking out the door and towards the target range. “Come and show me your stance.”

Ashe lines himself up with the target and stands with his legs shoulder-width apart and his knees slightly bent. He knocks an arrow and lets it loose. It shoots forward, glances the edge of the target, and buries itself into the ground.

With no warning, Dedrick comes up behind him and places his hands on Ashe’s hips. He twists them so that they would be parallel to the bow when drawn. “Posture is key for accuracy.”

“Eep!” Ashe exclaims and flushes in embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Dedrick flexes his fingers in concern, but given their position, it just means he digs his fingers into Ashe’s hips further.

“You just surprised me is all.” He stammers, very aware of the fingers on his hips and the bruises they are making. Oh the things they could do. He shivers. He turns his head a bit to face Dedrick and nearly drops the bow in surprise when their lips nearly collide from the proximity.

Dedrick takes a step back. The tips of his ears are a red, which means Ashe isn’t the only one who noticed how close they were. “I apologize for scaring you. I just thought it would be easier to learn if I adjusted your posture instead of telling you what to do.”

Ashe shakes his head to try and sift those thoughts out from his brain, past his ear canals, and onto the dirt. “No, you’re fine. I scare easily. Could you show me again?”

The other man nods and returns to his previous spot behind Ashe. He straightens Ashe’s torso and makes other minor changes to his posture before stepping away. “Try once more.”

Ashe draws and lets loose. The arrow flies and this time it pierces the target, in one of the outer rings. He yells excitedly. “I did it!”

Dedrick sits back, content to watch as Ashe shoots arrow after arrow. None of them hit the bullseye, but the subsequent arrows land tantalizingly closer and closer to it. Ashe’s eyes are twinkling. He shoots for a few more minutes in deep concentration, with the occasional exuberant whoop of victory, before he composes himself and grows oddly quiet.

“Hey Dedrick? Can I ask you something?” Ashe asks, arms still poised to shoot.

“Speak?” Dedrick responds from the wall he’s leaning against.

“I’m happy we get to spend time like this. I know you said not to dwell too much on royalty and nobility and whatnot, but at the end of the day, it means a lot to have another regular person here with me. Us common folk gotta stick together! With that uh, being said, the ball is coming up soon and, well, I feel silly asking because I’ll most likely be working and I know you will be too. But if there’s just even a moment where I can put down my apron that night, could I seek you out for a dance?” Ashe doesn’t have the courage to turn around. He chews his lip in agony as the quiet stretches on and on after he’s finished asking his question.

“Ashe.” Dedrick sighs. “I’m afraid not.”

Ashe curls into himself. Of course a secret service member can’t stop guarding the Prince at one of the most public events in all of Faerghus! He is stupid for asking. Still, anticipating a rejection and actually hearing it are two very different things. His eyes squeeze shut. There is a weight attached to his heart, dragging it down until it's buried in the ground.

“You misunderstand me.” Dedrick places his hand on the small of Ashe’s back. Ashe lowers his arms, the bow and arrow hanging loosely from his fingers, and turns toward him. “Listen. I have something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I—”

“Well if it isn’t the charming Pri—” someone coughs, “—sorry, excuse me, Dedrick.” Ashe grimaces. It’s Cornelia. The way she says Dedrick’s name is nauseating, nails on a chalkboard. She emphasizes each syllable with a cruel, knowing smirk, as if everyone but Ashe is in on a joke. Dedrick’s expression cools and he steps away from Ashe, dropping down into a low bow.

“Lady Arnim. What brings you out to the training grounds?”

“I was hoping to catch some royalty.”

While this is happening, Ashe cocks the bow and lets an arrow loose out of frustration. It soars, arcs, and pierces the bullseye. Ashe excuses himself to retrieve it.

When he’s out of earshot, Dedrick hisses, “I do not appreciate your little games, Cornelia.”

She scoffs, answering coolly, “If I’m not mistaken your Highness, aren’t you the one playing games here?” She gestures at Ashe.

Dedrick snaps, “Do not mistake me tolerating your presence as affection for your person.”

Cornelia clucks her tongue and inspects her nails. “I came here to iron out details about the order of the auction at the Winter Charity Ball, since you failed to show at the appointed time.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from her side. “I apologize. It slipped my mind this morning.”

“We all have our distractions, your Highness.” She waves dismissively and slips her arm into his. “Now if you please, we have much to discuss.”

Ashe returns precisely at that moment, eyes their proximity, and turns on his heel. The message is loud and clear. He ignores Dedrick calling out for him, refusing to voluntarily rub salt on his wounds.

Dedrick makes what sounds like a promise to seek him out later.

He doesn’t.

Not that day, not the day after, and soon, the ball is upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alois, you cruel man.
> 
> On to the ball! Things get very spicy, courtesy of one Cornelia Arnim.
> 
> Discuss with me here (via comment) or on Twitter at @shoppaibitch.


	5. SEEKING THE TRUTH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Welcome to the annual Winter Charity Ball. As you know, this has been a long running tradition in Faerghus and we are overjoyed that we are able to continue this upstanding event through your generosity. This year we are focusing on repairs and scholarship initiatives for various orphanages throughout the country. In the spirit of closing out the year and embarking on new journeys, as my father has before me and his father before him, I would like to take this moment to pass the reins over to my son. Now announcing, Prince Molinaro!”

The ball is a massive affair. The amount of food and preparation is unprecedented, the guestlist is almost triple Ashe’s height, and there are nobles and others of the upper echelons of society decking the ballroom floor. There’s even a live orchestra with an opera singer from the famed Mittlefrank Opera. Ashe has never experienced anything like this. Even the Christmas decorations, which should be something familiar, are of a different breed here: the star at the top of the tree and the other ornaments are made of actual precious metals and rare gemstones. The opulence wears Ashe out. He had worked up a tolerance over the past few weeks to the grandeur, but this is unparalleled splendor. It is like his first day here all over again: he sticks out, he makes the decorations look cheap, he just doesn’t fit in. His fingers itch to stress bake. 

Someone runs into him, and he falls, apologizing profusely as he gets back up. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” 

His face almost sours when he sees it’s Cornelia, but he’s a professional and keeps it together. He picks up the velvet box that she dropped and hands it to her. 

She glances at him from the ground and gives him a sweet and very obviously fake smile. “Yes, I’m fine.” She makes to get up. “Oh, whoops!” She falls onto him, grabbing his waist with one hand and his hip with the other. ”I lost my balance! These heels you know. So sorry.” She sounds anything but.

Ashe watches her slither off, the hairs on the back of his neck still raised. She had looked absolutely delighted. Something was coming. He shakes it off and goes to tend to the drink bar.

Just as he’s about 90% over his unpleasant encounter with Cornelia, a certain redhead pops into view.

“Hey there stranger. Come here often?”

“Hello, Mr. Gautier.” Ashe gives him a quick nod of the head and focuses on opening the champagne bottle.

“Mr. Gautier, huh? I see you. You’re putting space between us. You used to do that when you were upset with me.”

Ashe grips the bottle a little harder. The last time they were in a similar situation, Ashe had let his emotions take over. He pushes down everything he wants to say with a big gulp of air. “What can I help you with this evening?” Professionalism, professionalism, professionalism, he repeats to himself.

“A dance? For old times’ sake?” Sylvain outstretches his hand, winking.

“That’s very kind of you but no, thank you. I’m working.” Ashe puts physical distance between them this time, going around to the other side of the table to refill the punch bowl.

“Oh, come now, don’t tell me you’ve turned into a Grinch during the holidays?” Sylvain crowds his space, leaning down over the table so that they’re eye to eye.

For every inch Ashe leans back, the redhead leans forward. Ashe huffs. “I said no. I’m a terrible dancer and I’m on the clock.”

Sylvain shrugs and carelessly tosses out: “I mean as a royal guest I could order you to dance with me.” He probably meant it as an out, a way to keep Ashe from getting in trouble for slacking off, but that’s a very charitable interpretation and Ashe is not feeling that generous tonight.

There’s a silence in the moment that follows despite the chatter and the orchestra playing in the background. Something clouds Ashe’s eyes and the temperature drops a few degrees. Without a doubt, that was the wrong thing to say.

Ashe jabs the champagne bottle into Sylvain’s chest. “And by doing so you’d become the very thing you hate: someone weaponizing your status for personal gain.”

“Ow!” The redhead puts his hands out in an attempt to pacify the other. “Ashe you know I didn’t mean it.”

Everything Ashe tried to hold back bubbles over. “You meant it Sylvain. You always mean it. You’re the same as you ever were: a vengeful toddler poking and jabbing at people because you got hurt once and so now everyone else has to hurt. I get it now. I finally understand. This whole time I thought it was me, that I wasn’t enough and that’s why you cheated. But it’s you! You’re trapped in a prison of your own making; you reenact the same scene over and over in every relationship you ever have and discard anything that disproves your thesis of the world.” 

“Ashe, that’s pretty harsh.”

“Is it Sylvain? Is it truly?”

Sylvain’s rebuttal is interrupted by two blaring trumpets and the entrance of the Queen. Her white hair is pulled back neatly in a bun and she wears a mermaid gown glittering with Swarovski crystals. She looks familiar, though Ashe can’t quite put his finger on why. The room respectfully quiets down so that she can be heard. She is soft spoken in a way that the conversation feels intimate, as though she is speaking for your ears only.

“Welcome to the annual Winter Charity Ball. As you know, this has been a long running tradition in Faerghus and we are overjoyed that we are able to continue this upstanding event through your generosity. This year we are focusing on repairs and scholarship initiatives for various orphanages throughout the country. In the spirit of closing out the year and embarking on new journeys, as my father has before me and his father before him, I would like to take this moment to pass the reins over to my son. Now announcing, Prince Molinaro!”

Heads swivel to the front as the Crown Prince enters in full royal regalia. He too, has his hair pulled back mirroring the Queen. His sash is emblazoned with royal insignia and it hangs elegantly from his fringed epaulettes, along with a fourragère and badges that denote things beyond Ashe’s knowledge. Time slows for Ashe as he watches the man he’s been courting walk to the podium and begin to speak. Everything comes in flashes.

_Cornelia had called out, “Prince Molinero—” while looking at Dedrick. The man had awkwardly interrupted with something about how the Prince was busy and everyone had looked so confused._

“Thank you Queen Molinaro for the introduction and thank you all for attending tonight. As you know, I’m not a man of many words.” This draws some laughter from the crowd. “Tonight we are gathered…”

_“Well if it isn’t the charming Pri—” Cornelia had coughed, “—sorry excuse me, Dedrick.” The way she emphasized his name and had that infuriating smirk on her face like she knew something no one else did. She had said: “I was hoping to catch some royalty.”_

“...without further ado, I’d like to start the charity auction. I’d like to call Lady Cornelia Arnim to the stage to present the listings.”

There is applause and the audience turns to the Cornelia who is slowly walking to the stage. She sashays to the podium, taking her time and basking in the spotlight. She raises a velvet box up and displays it to the crowd. “This is the Molinaro family heirloom that has been in a vault for countless generations. I am pleased to debut it to the world, especially for such a worthy cause.” She opens the box and a collective gasp echoes throughout the room. It’s empty.

_“No. Only those of the royal family.” Dedrick had paused then. Had that been a panicked pause? “The Prince and I are on friendly terms. He lets me ride his horses to make sure they are....adequate.”_

Mere seconds pass before Cornelia shrieks, “Thief! This must be the work of a thief!”

Prince Dedue places a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to placate her. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Lady Arnim, when was the last time you saw it?”

“I was walking with it in my hands and then I ran into someone, one of the palace staff.” She makes a show of trying to remember and then abruptly claps her hands together as if she’s caught the idea in between them. “There! He’s right over there!” She points. “Search him!” Time slows again as Ashe follows the direction of Cornelia’s finger. Funny, it looks like it leads right to...himself.

_“And what’s with the sunglasses in December?”_

_“It’s so I don’t get recognized.” The signs had all been there. Ashe had just been too thick to realize it._

“Wait! What?” Ashe exclaims dumbly. He snaps out of his reverie. Whiplash. The room is quiet but the staring is oppressive enough that he can hear it. “There’s no way!”

“Show us what’s in your pockets then!” Cornelia commands from the podium. Over the top theatrics. Ashe rolls his eyes. He’s seen better actresses in his sister’s middle school theatre club. Surely everyone sees what she is doing?

He reaches into his pocket, radiating a confidence that lasts mere seconds when his fingers wrap around something very sharp and gem-like. His blood runs cold. He pulls out his hand and unfurls his fingers, unveiling a small gem that looks as though it contains the entire cosmos. It is beautiful. It’s his death sentence.

He stares at it in complete disbelief. Another gasp runs throughout the room. “How did this get here?” He whispers, voice cracking. Cornelia must have placed it in his pocket when she fell onto him. This cannot be happening.

“As I thought! How disgraceful! The palace gave this criminal a second chance and he repays them by stealing! And during a Charity event no less!”

He should say something, anything to vocalize his innocence, because she is weaving together a lie. She’s a master puppeteer, stringing the guests in this ball-turned-courtroom into dancing to the beat of her gavel. It only takes moments but a dam breaks and the press is on him like hounds. The flashes of the cameras are devastatingly bright and the crowd presses forward like the tide. Ashe backs up step by step until he hits the wall. He attempts to say something but his throat closes up and the words he’s thinking in his head don’t make past his skull. He looks around in the crowd wildly, seeking out a sympathetic face, anyone who will listen to him and believe him.

Ashe can see in the corner of his eye that Dedrick—no Dedue—has leapt from the stage and is pushing through the sea of people, trying to get closer to him. The man’s eyes are wide with panic and he’s yelling what looks like Ashe’s name, but Ashe turns away. His name has been on the lips of too many liars as of late. If he could go back in time he would never have placed it so carelessly in their hands. He can’t hear him anyway; the cacophony of the crowd is too thunderous. Overstimulation. He is not made for this. Despite his gut warning him that this will make matters worse, Ashe spins to his right and _runs._

_“My name is Ded—” that pause. It had been so long, so heavy. “—Dedrick.” He had meant to say Dedue, hadn’t he. Dedue Molinaro. Prince Dedue Molinaro._ Ashe’s vision blurs with tears. His feet keep moving. His chest heaves with exertion, acid burning through his lungs as he tries to outpace the stampede nipping at his heels.

He has no idea where he’s going nor how he’s going to escape the press but a hand shoots out and pulls him into a dark hallway. He’s pushed roughly against the wall, a hand clamped over his mouth, and a body presses itself against him.

For the love of the Goddess, this day just kept getting worse. Fight instincts fully activated, he struggles and tries to bite the hand covering his mouth but the body above him shushes him.

“Shhhhh! It’s me, Sylvain! Be quiet or they’ll find you.”

Ashe would rather die than get help from Sylvain. He pushes back harder, stomping on the redhead’s foot and tries to headbutt him. Sylvain desperately hisses into his ear for him to stop.

A voice rings out in the alleyway. “Pardon me, dear lovebirds. You didn’t happen to see a white-haired fellow, yay-tall, run by here?”

“Don’t speak, don’t move, just moan.” Sylvain whispers.

“Mmph!“ The redhead rolls his hips into Ashe. Ashe stutters, the words from his lips scattering somewhere on the carpeting below. Sylvain brings up an arm, strategically covering Ashe’s face from the onlooker.

“Oh, well if it isn’t Ferdinand from the Black Eagle Post.”

“Ah. Sylvain.” The distaste is clear in the reporter’s voice. “That would be Ferdinand von Aegir to you.”

“Right, right. Yeah, I can’t say that I was looking. Bit busy here if you catch my drift.” Sylvain rolls his hips again and this time Ashe does let out a breathy moan, to his utter displeasure. Humiliation burns as it falls from his eyes and down his cheeks. There are too many thoughts, too many emotions swiveling around and he feels sick.

“Tch, dry humping in public. One would think the heir to the Gautier fortune would refrain from such, unbecoming behavior. This is a new low even for you Sylvain.”

“Well you know me Ferdie. I believe you put it best: ‘One must wonder why the Gautier family threw aside their decorated elder son for one with less decorum. The only distinct talent the younger Gautier possesses is the length of time he spends between his numerous partners’ legs.’”

“ _Ferdinand_ _von Aeigir_.” The reporter corrects again. “Alas, Sylvain, the tabloids have tired of your numerous scandals. But please, do consider shaping up. It truly is an embarrassment for someone of your stature.”

“Sir, yes sir, but if you will excuse us now, I have other ways I’d like to shape up.” He winks and Ferdinand turns on his heel, departing with an angry huff.

When the sound of footsteps has retreated far enough, Ashe shoves Sylvain away.

“Get off me!” Ashe snarls, his face red and wet from shame and embarrassment. “Sylvain, how could you?”

“How could I what? Save your hide?”

“Everything! How could you tell Cornelia about my past? How could you keep your mouth shut about Dedrick,” he chokes, “I mean Dedue, being a Prince?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down there buddy! It wasn’t me Ashe! I didn’t say a word to Cornelia. I also didn’t know you were hanging out with the Prince more than that one time so why would I tell anyone, much less tell you?”

“Well the timing was ridiculously convenient! You just happened to be here after I told you off?” His voice cracks at the end of his sentence. He clenches his fists—they’re shaking from exertion and adrenaline.

“Do you even hear yourself right now? I followed you because I wanted to help you! And apologize! I felt really horrible after what you said. I saw you running in this direction and I knew I could make it towards you by taking a shortcut one of the maids told me about when we were fooling around a few days ago. I honestly didn’t tell anyone anything about you or know you were close to the Prince at all!”

Sylvain actually looks sincere. Ashe takes a breath, then two, then three. He brings his hands to his eyes to block out the world. “You’re right.” he says, in between hiccups, “I’m sorry. I’m not making sense. Thank you.”

“Hey.” Sylvain’s voice is gentle as he draws Ashe into his arms. Ashe doesn’t resist. “It’s ok. This whole thing is crazy as fuck.” He cards his fingers through Ashe’s hair, the way he used to when they were dating, until the tears subside. He passes Ashe a tissue, despite the fact that Ashe has been using his shirt as an impromptu one.

“Oh Goddess, I’ve ruined your shirt.” Ashe sniffles. 

Sylvain laughs and puts his hand at the small of Ashe’s back. “Wouldn’t be the first time, though different fluids.” He ducks when Ashe swats at him. “Anyway, let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth is out! Ashe officially knows he smooched a Prince!!
> 
> I'm still cackling at a comment where someone said, "These fuckers definitely have a food play kink."
> 
> Discuss with me here (via comment) or on Twitter at @shoppaibitch.


	6. ALL IS FOUND

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How are you feeling?”
> 
> “I-I don’t know. A mix of things? The whole thing was like a dream and yet I’m sitting here with you three, which means it was real after all. But even though there was so much good, at the end of the day, he lied to me. I’m tired of liars.”  
> Ashe sucks in a breath. “I really had a wonderful time with Dedri—, ah, Dedu—. Prince Molinaro. But I never want to see him again.”

The Black Eagle Post is absolutely scathing, with mocking headlines like, “Rise of the Gold-Digger: How a Plain Jane Struck Big.” They detail his descent into poverty and outline his life, callously highlighting how he and Sylvain were lovers (their relationship was so low profile the press had never bothered to write about it). They use that as groundwork, surmising that after the big breakup, he needed more money to fund his lavish (ha!) lifestyle and so he turned to the palace.

The Golden Deer Tribune is just as cruel, ripping apart his moral character in a snarkier, more pop-culture centric manner: “From Gautier Heir to Royal Blood, Thieves be Ambitious!” They spend pages pouring over his brief stint in juvie for breaking and entering, profiling him as an adrenaline junkie who can’t quit thieving.

The Blue Lions Herald is at least a little friendly, painting him in somewhat of a sympathetic light rather than some mastermind that planned a heist on the palace. “Nature vs Nurture: How Unfortunate Circumstances Made an Honest Man a Thief,” is probably one of the nicest headlines, though their attempted psychoanalysis on his behavior...Ashe scoffs and crushes the newspaper in his hands. He lets it drop to the floor and instead stares at the gem that’s glistening on the table in front of him. All this fuss over such a little thing.

He groans and buries his head in his arms.

He’s taken refuge in Sylvain’s accommodation, a two story house neatly tucked away in town, though it isn’t necessarily by choice. Reporters have been on the prowl and he really has no other options. Going back to the palace is impossible at this point. He sighs, the fate of his suitcase unknown for the foreseeable future.

Sylvain, to his credit, has not asked even once if Ashe actually stole the gem. He is a gracious host, providing food, lodging, and telling Ashe to hide when a reporter comes sniffing around. The badgering is nonstop; the press is chomping at the bit for a soundbite since Ashe and Sylvain used to date. “Did you know he was capable of such a thing?” “Did you break up because he tried to steal from you?” “Was he always a gold digger?” “Did you pay him for his services in bed?” The irritation builds and at a certain point, Sylvain snaps, snatching a voice recorder from one of them and slamming the door in their faces.

Today is no different.

“Ashe,” Sylvian calls, “You might want to go upstairs for this one.”

Ashe pokes his head up. Sylvain has a grim expression on his face. Ashe groans. Standing, he tucks the gem into his pocket, and heads up the stairs. He stops right at the top and crouches down so he can sneak a peek at the guest on the doorstep.

“Sylvain, my pet, how are you?” Cornelia walks in and shrugs her coat off her shoulders. Sylvain leans in, giving her a kiss on either cheek and takes the coat from her to hang it in the closet.

“Been doing alright, though obviously I’m doing better now that a beauty such as yourself has graced me with her presence.” Ashe can hear the wink from where he’s sitting. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Yes, that would be most wonderful.” Her heels click against the tiled floor as she makes her way to the sitting room. Ashe shifts and slowly maneuvers down a few steps so that he can hear her better. She’s facing away from him, so he won’t be seen, but he makes sure to keep himself hidden away as much as possible. Tempting fate is not a game he plans on playing today.

Sylvain returns with tea and some biscuits. Ashe frowns, noting that they’re ones he stress-baked this morning. He can’t even chastise himself for the thought that they would be wasted on her.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been as attentive to you as I should have. These past few days have been a mess, haven’t they?”

A laugh rings throughout the room. “Yeah, you could say that. But you know me, I’m good at keeping myself occupied.” There’s a pause, then, “How are things at the palace?”

“Well, Prince Dedue is furious of course.” Cornelia takes a sip of her tea. “Imagine finding out that the man you’ve been spending time with is actually a thief. The whole time he thought they were getting to know one another was just a ploy to steal a royal heirloom. Not only that, but an heirloom that was supposed to be used for charity. He’s hurt and confused, the poor thing.”

Ashe starts but grips the handrail to hold himself in place. Searing hot indignation courses through him at the unfairness, the injustice of it all. He tries to steady his breath, because if he doesn’t, his heart will burst out of his chest. Goddess, of course Dedue is angry. To any onlooker, Ashe looks as guilty as sin.

“You don’t really believe that though, do you?” Sylvain’s tone is the same as it always is, joking and lighthearted, but there is an undercurrent of something, something sharp.

“Pardon?”

“Oh please.” Sylvain takes a bite out of his biscuit, perhaps to sap some of the edge from his words. It’s hard to be angry at someone who resembles a chipmunk, cheeks stuffed with food. “It just seems too convenient.”

Cornelia takes another sip of her tea. “How do you mean?”

“You happen to run into him and then he just so happens to still be in the ballroom when you discover that the gem is missing? If he’s as cunning as the papers make him out to be, then shouldn’t he have hightailed it out of there once he stole the gem from you? Or, ok, say he’s a cocky guy so he stuck around to see the chaos when everyone discovers it’s missing. Even still, it doesn’t make sense that a guy that planned such a long con would still have the gem on his person by that time. It’s sloppy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath and the sound of a teacup clacking against a saucer. Cornelia laughs and it is borderline maniacal. “Top marks, Sylvain, top marks. See, this is why I like you, pet.” She coos. “You’re smarter than most of the eye candy I carry around.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin the illusion. So why’d you do it?”

Cornelia scoffs. “Isn’t it obvious? Power, Sylvain. Power. Faerghus right now is an embarrassment! For too long, the Royal Family has been focused on keeping the peace, charity and all these cute, worthless initiatives. They lack vision! We should be spending money on weapons, thinking about advancing our armies and expanding our borders into other territories! As Queen, I could change this.

“I was planning to seduce the Prince and marry into the Royal Family. But when I got there, Prince Dedue was wrapped around the finger of that little rat, this commoner that came from nowhere. Oh, poor Prince Dedue and his bleeding heart probably just couldn’t help but fall for such a charity case. The audacity of that commoner, to even talk to the Prince!

“Anyway, it was simple. Rats need to be exterminated. I dug around, found out that he went to juvenile detention for stealing, and everything fell into place.” She flips her hair back. “All I had to do was frame him, console Prince Dedue during these hard times, and I’d be on my way to becoming Queen. The funny thing is, the rat took the jewel with him so in the end, it wasn’t even a frame job!”

“Wow.” Sylvain slow claps. “I guess evil people really do monologue in real life. This turned out really handy.” There’s a sound of a click, then the garbling noise of a tape being rewound.

There’s another click and a voice plays. It’s a bit tinny, but unmistakably Cornelia. “ _Anyway, it was simple. Rats need to be exterminated. I dug around, found out that he went to juvenile detention for stealing, and everything fell into place. All I had to do was frame him, console Prince Dedue during these hard times, and I’d be on my way to becoming Queen.”_ Ashe grabs at the hem of his shirt with shaking fingers.

There is a screeching, scraping sound of a chair being roughly pushed back as Cornelia stands. “What is the meaning of this Sylvain?”

Sylvain is impassive, responding lazily. “Nothing really, Cornelia. Just repaying one good deed with another.”

“Don’t play games with me brat.”

“From pet to brat. Ouch. Someone’s a little angry.” Sylvain tuts. “C’mon, Cornelia. You played your hand. It’s only fair for me to play mine. Let’s play out some routes. The way I see it, there are three options. I could keep this and listen to it when I’m bored. Your angry voice is pretty stimulating and I could see some good uses for this.” Ashe groans to himself. Sylvain is incorrigible. “I could call up my dear friend Ferdie or any of the other reporters who have been badgering me for a comment these past few days and let them have a listen. I could send this to the palace as well; maybe the Crown Prince would enjoy hearing about the grand ploy for his hand in marriage. What do you think? I would pick, but you know, ladies first.”

Something, perhaps the teacup, cracks under Cornelia’s fist and she seethes there in silence. Sylvain simply grabs a replacement and pours her another cup. Finally, after what seems like eternity, she speaks. “What are your terms.”

“Call off the press. Go home. Leave the machinations behind and pursue the Prince another day. Just let this shit die down. I promise this tape won’t see the light of day.”

“This is quite unlike you. Why ruin this good thing we have going?” The saccharine tone she uses makes Ashe’s teeth rot. He runs his tongue over his teeth to scrub the grime away.

“Because it’s no longer fun. It’s not you, it’s me.“ The words escape from Sylvain’s lips with ease. Practiced and precise. They’ve been said many times before—Ashe has been on the receiving end of this once upon a time—but it is an almost out of body experience to hear it being said to someone else.

Cornelia starts laughing suddenly, the puzzle having clicked together in her mind. “You’re doing this for that rat! He’s here, isn’t he!”

Ashe scrambles back up the stairs as quietly as he can, shivering as the temperature of the room drops by twenty degrees. His stomach rolls. Her perception is unsettling.

“Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain. He’s not going to come back to you if you do this for him.” She tuts and her voice drips with condescension. “You poor, misguided thing.” She sighs in a showy manner. “Alright, I accept your terms. The damage is already done anyway. Bring me my coat so I can leave.” There’s another scraping of a chair against the floor as Sylvain goes to do just that.

“And rat?” She calls out, “Don’t think this changes anything. Prince Dedue doesn’t want anything to do with you.” With that, she storms towards the door, snatches her coat out of Sylvain’s hands, and leaves.

Sylvain quietly closes the door behind her and slides down to the floor in exhaustion. He and Ashe make eye contact and they stare, and stare, and stare at each other until the tension snaps and they start laughing.

“Holy fuck.” Sylvain says in between gasps. “That was insane.”

Ashe nods, running his hands through his hair and massaging at his scalp. His head is a whirlwind of thoughts that he can barely make heads or tails of, but there are two things that tug at him, needling him to follow up despite his second-hand fatigue.

“Sylvain?”

“Hn?”

“Are you helping me,” Ashe pauses, the question tasting awkward in his mouth, “because you want to get back together?”

“Fuck, Ashe. You’re going to ask me this now after all that?” The redhead asks incredulously, crumpling against the door a little more. He leans his head back against the wood and stares up at the ceiling, chewing on the inside of his mouth for a bit before answering. “Ashe, we’re friends. I just want to help.”

“Okay.” Ashe says in response. “Okay.”

He waits a little, spotting the reddish tinge on Sylvain’s cheeks. Sylvain’s guard is down, probably due to the fatigue of dealing with Cornelia. The urge to tease starts as a small itch on the tongue and as Ashe swallows, it unfurls to the rest of his body. When the blush fades, he opens his mouth. “So did your standards drop even more after me or was evil always where the bar was set?”

Sylvain eyes the barely held back laughter wracking Ashe’s body and his lips tighten into a pout.

Ashe slaps a hand over his mouth, but the sour expression on Sylvain’s face is the key to his lips, Pandora’s box. Full blown cackles are released into the air.

Sylvain snorts despite himself.

“Ashe, you suck.”

-

Cornelia is true to her word. The doorbell that the press had so lovingly caressed the past few days has been abandoned by its tenacious lovers. Or so they thought. Today, the bell rings around noon and Ashe groans, flinging himself behind the couch as Sylvain answers it. Ashe shouldn’t be surprised. Time and time again the universe has proven giving people the benefit of the doubt most often gives way to disappointment, but he’s still blindsided by it nonetheless.

“Ashe, you’re going to want to see this.”

He peeks up from the couch and his eyes widen to impossible sizes. It’s Mercedes, with a grumbling Annette in tow. 

“Ashe,” is all she needs to say before Ashe leaps over the couch, social graces be damned, and launches himself into her arms. He’s a babbling mess and she holds him through it all, first as his crying soaks through her cardigan, then her blouse, and then until only her bra remains. Annette huffs and covers Sylvain’s eyes.

“Why are you here?” Ashe sniffles, thoroughly embarrassed but grateful nonetheless. 

“We saw the tabloids.” There is a pause. “And Sylvain called. Said you were baking up a storm and that he’d soon have enough food to last him ten winters if we didn’t stop you.”

Ashe looks up from Mercedes’ chest to see said redhead, still blinded by Annette’s hands, giving him a thumbs up. He looks down and immediately flushes once he realizes Mercedes’ state of undress. “Goddess, Mercedes did I cry through your clothing again?”

“Yup, just like the old days, though I hope you’re about done? I really like this bra and so does Annette.”

There is a choking sound from behind them.

“Yes, I'm done.” Ashe responds sheepishly, removing himself from Mercedes’ arms.

“Good. Now Sylvain would you be a dear and fetch us some tea? Annette, love, a new shirt from my suitcase would be most wonderful. And Ashe? You should probably wash up in the bathroom.”

The three of them respond at the same time. “Yes, Mercedes.”

Ashe shuffles into the washroom and looks at the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot marshmallows, his cheeks permanently tear-stained. His nose is a waterfall of snot that he crushes between his fingers until it finally runs dry. He rinses his face and attempts to lessen the swelling by applying a cold compress.

By the time he comes out, Mercedes has procured a new shirt, the tea has been set, and everyone is sitting in front of the fireplace making small talk.

He joins them, picking up a stress-bake-scone and nestling into a chair. He gets through one bite before the questioning begins.

Annette is the first to start, always quick to gather facts in order to understand a problem. “How did you meet him? What’s he like? Is he as handsome in person as they say? Did you kiss? How did the press find out? What are you doing here? Are you and Sylvain dating again?”

He responds to what he can, but it’s pretty difficult when he’s being peppered with questions like a roast pig. Eventually Mercedes stuffs a scone in her girlfriend’s mouth to cease the interrogation. Annette huffs through the pastry.

“How are you feeling?”

“I-I don’t know. A mix of things? The whole thing was like a dream and yet I’m sitting here with you three, which means it was real after all. But even though there was so much good, at the end of the day, he lied to me. I’m tired of liars.” He stares pointedly at Sylvain, who suddenly develops a deep interest in his plate. “Honestly, I don’t even know why he lied at all. I keep trying to come up with reasons but all I draw are blanks.”

“W-ell,” Mercedes starts, drawing out the vowels, “Maybe he was trying to make sure you weren’t a gold digger?” Annette and Sylvain make sounds of agreement.

“I guess? But surely after the first few days he would’ve seen that I wasn’t…” He frowns, biting into his lip. “Ugh, this speculation is useless.”

Mercedes pats him on the shoulder. “Okay, no more speculation. Let’s focus on action! What are you going to do now?”

_Right, action._ Ashe sucks in a breath. He lets himself out of the figurative passenger seat and slides into the driver’s, resting his hands on the wheel. “Well, I really had a wonderful time with Dedri—, ah, Dedu—. Prince Molinaro. But I never want to see him again.” He takes a moment. “No, that’s not actually true. I do want to see him again and that’s what’s so frustrating!”

The three others nod and munch on their pastries, waiting for Ashe to continue. “But regardless of what I want…” He trails off. _Prince Dedue doesn’t want anything to do with you._ He begins chewing on his lip in earnest. “Regardless of what I want, it’s not like I can just waltz into the palace like nothing has happened. I’m pretty sure I’m fired. Actually, I’m pretty sure I got you fired too Mercedes. Goddess, I’m so sorry about that.” He grimaces, sinking his nails into his thighs.

“Hush.” Mercedes gently extracts his hands and squeezes them. “This is as good a time as any to finally pursue what I’m actually passionate about—helping those in need. I’m going to look into working for non-profits! I’ll be fine. That being said, there is the issue of how you’ll see him again.”

“Couldn’t he just sneak into the castle? I mean he used to be a thief right? He’s still got the skills, seeing as to how he’s stolen my heart yet again.” Annette, Mercedes, and Ashe turn simultaneously to glare at Sylvain. The redhead wilts under their gazes. “Sorry! Habits are hard to break.”

The wheels start turning in Ashe’s head. He may have dropped thieving for good once Lonato took him in, but that didn’t mean he forgot _how_ to break into buildings. Sylvain has a point. Even if Dedue isn’t particularly receptive to him, he still needs to return the royal heirloom and clear his name. He shifts gears from what-ifs, to how.

They go back and forth over several more cups of tea and some sandwiches. Eventually they hatch a scheme that involves Alois smuggling him into the castle and Ashe sneaking his way into the Prince’s quarters. The main wildcard in the plan is Alois. Helping a thief at large—no matter how untrue the actual allegations are—is an offense that could cost the head chef his job as well.

Ashe bounces these thoughts around in his head as he makes the quick trip over to the Rangeld family home. Contrary to Ashe’s headcanon, Alois does not live in the palace. His family lives in town, not too far from where Sylvain is staying. The route is relatively easy, but Ashe sticks closely to the walls and clings to the hoodie concealing his face in case some overzealous reporters are still hanging about.

Given Alois’ easy going nature, it shouldn’t be too hard to convince him to help, but Ashe was never one to put all his eggs in one basket. Different scenarios and outcomes churn and churn through his mind until he’s at their doorstep and ringing the doorbell. Unfortunately, his thought-butter sits uselessly in his brain once the head chef actually opens the door and they are face to face.

“Ashe?” Alois’ jaw hangs slack as he takes in the man before him. He slams the door shut immediately.

Ashe blinks, clearly taken aback. He slaps his face with both of his hands to jump start his brain and knocks on the door once more. “Hey Alois. Can we talk?”

The response is swift. “No, Ashe Duran. I won’t have a bit of whatever you are selling! Good day!”

Ashe listens for the sound of receding footsteps and hears nothing. Alois must be curious. His lips quirk up; Alois is ever like a dame from the 1950s, curious but hiding behind propriety. A second wind lines his sails. He throws tact overboard, floors the engine, and drives straight through the proverbial bush. “Alois, I was framed.” He waits, seeing if the other man will bite.

The resounding gasp behind the door is very reassuring.

“I need you to help me clear my name and return the stone to the Prince. Please!”

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait, you skipped on the motive! And the perpetrator!” Alois whines from behind the door.

Surprise pinches his tongue for the briefest of moments. He chuckles. His siblings used to carry the same tone when he’d skip ahead in their bedtime stories because either he’d forgotten where they left off the previous night, or was in a rush to get them to bed. He relaxes a little bit, leaning into the many tales he used to read to assemble this one. “Well, it’s a story of love and greed. Our primary players are a conniving noble, an ex-thief-turned-cook, and a dashing mystery man.” Narrating the story this way dulls the sting of reliving the past few weeks. It’s not his story, just the story of a common boy who got mixed up with royalty.

“The cook and the mystery man had been spending many hours getting to know one another, filling in the outlines of who the other was. It started off on the wrong foot; the cook embarrassed himself many times, but the mystery man kept asking to see the cook. It kindled something within the ex-thief. Where previously was a barren wasteland, interest began to bloom. But as it was about to blossom into love, the conniving noble came with her hatchet to chop it down.”

He spins the tale, adding a bit of garnish here and there, just to keep Alois salivating for the next bite. Alois is an attentive audience, gasping and sighing in all the right places. “She wanted to become Queen, so she needed to get rid of the cook. Why would she need to get rid of a lowly cook, you may ask? Well, you see, it’s because the mystery man,” he pauses for dramatic flair, “Was the Crown Prince all along.”

The head chef chokes and sputters from behind the door. “To think that this whole time you were courting the Crown Prince right under everyone’s noses! You were a thief after all! A thief of hearts, ha ha!”

Ashe grimaces. At least Alois is making jokes; that’s a step up from slamming a door in his face. Unfortunately, Alois’ voice takes on a more somber tone after his laughter abates. “I wish I could help. I believe you, I really do, but I don’t know if I can risk my job so you can clear your name. I have a family to feed and it wouldn’t look so good if my Christmas gift to them was getting fired.”

Steadying himself against the doorframe, Ashe trembles. He reaches for a rebuttal and comes up empty handed. His voice comes out small, smaller than he would’ve liked. “Alois, I understand I’m asking a lot of you. I hate that I have to ask but I wouldn’t if I had any other choice.” There’s a restlessness that overtakes his fingers, as though Alois is actually slipping through their grasp.

Alois, to his credit, does sound horribly apologetic. “Sorry, Ashe. Glad to know you didn’t do it though.”

Ashe hears a tap on the wood, perhaps a farewell gesture, and then other man’s footsteps start to recede. An idea comes to him then, a Hail Mary. There is only one thing to do. Ashe’s reluctance sticks to his teeth like taffy, but he raises his voice and pushes the words out. “Alois, I’d be…floured if you helped me. I understand your starch approach, but I…I’m in love. At this point, I’m defwheated. You’re the only one who can help! I can’t stop thinking about him and it hurts to think this is how it will end—"

“That’s it!” The stomping of rapid footsteps, a slamming of a door, and a jovial yell happen in quick succession before Ashe is lifted up and crushed into a bear hug.

“Alois?” Ashe wheezes out, with the remaining air in his lungs.

The head chef must hear the desperation to breathe. He drops Ashe onto the ground. Ashe immediately doubles over and coughs. When he’s stable, he asks, “You’re not upset with me anymore?”

“Ashe, my boy, I was never upset. I had some concerns as the days went by and neither you nor the gem turned up, but I clung steadfastly to my belief in you! My wife always tells me that I’m too trusting and that I need to be a little more skeptical of people, so I had to put you through the wringer, you see? And all that came out was the truth!” The chef puts his hands on his hips, a giant grin splitting his face in two. “Men that pun together, stay together!”

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what about the risk Alois? I know I’m asking a lot of you.”

“I could never turn down an actual friend in need Ashe. I’ll be The Chaffeur that you need.” Alois winks to confirm that yes, the Duran Duran reference is very much intentional. “It’ll be like the movies! We’ll roll up, as the kids say, and have the Prince declaring his love for you in no time.”

“Thank you Alois.” Relief floods him and he inhales shakily in an attempt to keep his emotions in check. It is a haphazard dam that falls apart when Alois pats him on the back, the force of it shaking the tears loose from his eyes.

“No problem kid.” Alois softens, ruffling the other man’s hair. “Everything is going to turn out alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeee, friends coming together to help friends! I love MercedesxAnnette too—they're so soft uwu.
> 
> I was a little nervous about posting this chapter because there wasn't any AsheDue, but the plot needed to be rounded out and the pieces needed to be moved into place. Hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> Discuss with me here (via comment) or on Twitter at @shoppaibitch.


	7. LETTING GO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedue spreads his legs in response, beckoning Ashe forward. Ashe’s mouth goes dry. The smaller man finds his feet obeying the command before he is even conscious of it. He drops to his knees, tucking himself into the newly created space. Reverently, he runs his hands up the muscles of Dedue’s calves, up his thighs, and stops them just a few inches shy of their destination. Dedue eyes him and tilts his chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

He unlocks the door and slips in silently. As he’s closing it, a voice cuts through the darkness and asks, “What are you doing here?”

Ashe nearly screams. He clutches the doorknob as he slowly turns his head, praying to the Goddess that it is not a ghost. His fingers clench even tighter around the metal when he sees Dedue sitting in an armchair as if he’s been expecting him the whole time.

Dedue waits, leaning back into the chair in a gesture that implies he has all the time in the world.

Ashe’s mouth takes off, full throttle. “I’m not here to steal anything I swear! I mean, that was the plan anyway. There’s no guidebook for how to deal with this kind of situation. In fact, my brain’s running a million miles a minute telling me to turn back, but for every thought that tells me this is a bad idea, there are two more full of you. Just you. I have to follow my heart. I’m here to return this, and to steal your heart instead.” When Ashe’s brain catches up with his verbal spewage, his face turns several shades of red and then purple.

The silence stretches on.

Ashe runs through several different ways of following up his embarrassing outburst, but the words catch in his throat and he swallows them down. He waits.

“And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

“Excuse me?” Ashe’s voice hits a new high, a falsetto even, as his eyes snap up to Dedue’s face. The Prince’s eyes are twinkling with mirth and Ashe’s brain short circuits unhelpfully. Is the Crown Prince flirting? Right now?

“You said you came here to steal my heart. How exactly do you plan to do that?” Dedue’s voice is steady but there’s a cheekiness there. A challenge. 

Ashe swallows. He is here for a very important discussion, but a very sculpted, very beautiful man is testing him, pushing for the use of his mouth in a different way. He reassesses his priorities. “Well a thief couldn’t get very far if he wasn’t good with his hands.”

Dedue spreads his legs in response, beckoning Ashe forward. Ashe’s mouth goes dry. The smaller man finds his feet obeying the command before he is even conscious of it. He drops to his knees, tucking himself into the newly created space. Reverently, he runs his hands up the muscles of Dedue’s calves, up his thighs, and stops them just a few inches shy of their destination. Dedue eyes him and tilts his chin, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

Ashe shudders at the movement and goes the rest of the way, palming Dedue through his pajama bottoms.

The other man closes his eyes. Ashe gathers enough courage to pull the waistband down and continues, “And he wouldn’t do so well if he didn’t have a silver tongue.”

“Hn.”

He bends forward, lips parted and ready, but Dedue opens his eyes, slides his fingers into Ashe’s hair, and holds him in place.

“Perhaps we should talk first.”

Ashe whines, trapped mere centimeters from his goal. “I’m listening. I can multitask.” He opens his mouth wide and looks up at Dedue with half-lidded eyes. An offering.

The man stutters and makes an aborted noise, but tries again valiantly. “I really think we should talk—“

Ashe hears him, he really does, but the sheer size of Dedue has his mouth watering and he can’t wait any longer. “Trust me, I’m a great listener,” he interrupts, pushing against Dedue’s hand. The latter comes to a decision and releases him. Ashe finally places his lips on the head of the other man’s cock and slides down.

Dedue chokes again. Ashe hums in response and hollows his cheeks, taking in as much as he can.

“I, hah,” Dedue pants, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything about me.” He groans when Ashe does something particularly wicked with his tongue. “When you...Goddess, Ashe.” Both fists are in his hair now, gently pushing Ashe down further and further.

Ashe’s eyes water and his jaw starts to ache, but the flushed expression on Dedue’s face as he fucks up into Ashe’s mouth is worth every second. He moans, chasing friction against his own palm. “You feel so good Ashe. You—” Suddenly Dedue stops speaking. His mouth is open, but instead of words, a siren blares and Ashe jolts awake.

He kills the alarm with an aggravated fist and smothers his face into the pillow. It’s time. He can’t afford to snooze, even if he so very much wants to return to napping, or if he was being honest, getting dream-fucked in the mouth.

He rolls out of bed and gets to work preparing for The Plan. If the night goes anything like his dream, he has something to look forward to. Ashe swats the thought away. Clearing up the misunderstanding is a much higher priority.

Black cap, black sweater, black jacket, black pants, and black socks to blend into the night. He certainly looks the part of a thief. He slides the jewel into his back pocket and sets out of his room.

Mercedes and Annette are dead asleep from their flight so they aren’t there to Ashe off. Sylvain, however, is pacing in the foyer.

“Hey.”

Sylvain freezes. “Oh h-hey. Wasn’t sure if you were going to wake up in time.”

“And miss the greatest heist of a lifetime? Never.” Ashe walks down the stairs and closes the distance between them. “I’m surprised you’re not asleep.”

“Ah.” Sylvain rubs his neck sheepishly and averts his gaze. “I was too jittery to sleep. I guess I’m nervous for you. I also wanted to give this to you before you left since it might uhm, help your case. And before you say anything, I had my fingers crossed when I told her I wouldn’t share the tape, so your morals can rest easy.” He takes out the tape recorder with incriminating evidence against Cornelia and puts it in Ashe’s hands.

Ashe blinks before his lips quirk up into a tiny smile. There’s an ease to their conversations now; he isn’t rubbed raw just being around the man. “Thank you.” He taps Sylvain on the chest to get his attention. “Not just for this. For everything,” he says when they make eye contact. 

Sylvain looks away abruptly. “N-no problem Ashe.” He shuffles his feet. “It’s the least I can do to try and atone.”

“Well,” Ashe chuckles softly, “I appreciate it nonetheless.” 

A car honks outside right on cue. Alois must’ve arrived. Ashe gets to the door and turns the handle. Sylvain calls out, giving him pause.

“Hey. I’m really sorry about everything. It wasn’t right, what I did to you.”

Ashe looks back in surprise. Apologizing, well, apologizing _sincerely,_ was never Sylvain’s strong suit. Their previous arguments had always involved a lot of hemming and hawing before something akin to an apology slipped from the redhead’s lips.

“I’ve been really thick-skulled. I let my pride and feelings come first and never bothered reflecting on how I’ve hurt others. So, I’m sorry. And okay maybe my motivations for helping you weren’t the purest at all times to answer your question from the other day, but Ashe, for what it’s worth, I really did love you.” The redhead clears his throat and turns away, his face sporting a pink hue. “Still do. Just you know, not in a way that would threaten what you have with Dedue and I uh...” He rambles, voice trembling uncharacteristically as he goes on. 

Ashe takes a good look at his ex. This is one of the few times he has ever seen Sylvain lose his cool, the playboy façade nowhere to be found. He opens the door, quietly says, “I know,” and lets the door swing shut behind him.

\- 

Alois’ nervous muttering is going to get the both of them shot. The head chef is at the wheel while Ashe is buried beneath bags of flour in the trunk. It’s a miracle that Ashe can even breathe while being crushed against the ground.

When Alois is stopped and asked to ID himself at the gate, Alois tries to make a joke about how everyone should recognize him by their stomachs by now; he’s fed nearly everyone on the palace’s payroll. That doesn’t go over well with the guard who repeats his demand for identification again with a sterner tone than before. Alois absolutely sags under pressure and rattles off, “It’s me, the chef! Head chef Alois! And some bags of flour because the kitchen! We ran out! Only flour, nothing else, definitely nothing or no one else!” His voice is an octave too high, his laugh a high pitched whine. Ashe is sweating enough to flood the car. Everything coming out of Alois’ mouth is absolutely suspect. If Ashe were the guard he would immediately demand that Alois step out and away from the vehicle for inspection.

Another voice joins the first and seems to recognize the chef. “Alois, we just need your ID.”

“R-right! Sorry, I got spooked by a deer on the way here. Maybe Prancer got lost on his way delivering presents. A-Anyway, thanks for being a dear and not kicking up a fuss. Ha ha!” Alois barely sounds like his usual self, but that horrific pun must work because the guards don’t say anything and the car continues on its merry way.

When they reach Alois’ usual parking spot, the chef frees Ashe from his starch prison. “Goddess have mercy kid. I’m not made for this!”

Ashe’s eyebrows shoot up but he holds his tongue.

“They make this look so much easier in the movies. It isn’t half as fun or exhilarating. I felt like I was listening to one of Mercedes’ ghost stories this whole time!”

“Alois?” Ashe interrupts the chef’s rambling. There are things to be done.

“Oh, right! Sorry, sorry.” The head chef points up towards the palace. “See that room up there in the West Wing? That’s Prince Dedue’s quarters. I don’t really know how you’re planning on getting up there kid, but good luck.”

Ashe makes some brief calculations. To oversimplify it, it seems all he really has to do is just keep going left and up from the service entrance. Most likely the Prince’s quarters will be the one surrounded by the most guards. He hugs Alois tight. “Thank you for your assistance Alois!” He leaves the head chef sputtering happily, and disappears into the darkness of the night.

It takes longer than he’d like, but Ashe finally understands the guards’ patrol patterns. There’s a short window of time when two of them disappear behind opposite corners until another two come to replace them.

It’s tight timing, but Ashe has worked under more harrowing circumstances before. Goddess may his fingers work as quickly as they used to. Once the guards are out of sight, he slips the little skewers he lifted from the kitchen into his hands and starts to work the lock. He lets muscle memory take over but something isn’t clicking and Ashe starts to sweat. He only has a few more precious seconds before the guards turn that corner. If he’s caught it will truly be over.

 _Please!_ He prays harder than he’s ever prayed, jiggling the skewers left and right a bit too harshly. One of them snaps in his hands.

The footsteps of the guards are coming closer. He extracts the broken skewer and replaces it with the spare he had the foresight to pack. There’s resistance.

_Step. Step. Step._

The guards’ idle chatter fills the hall as they round the corner. Ashe’s hands shake, the skewers are slippery from sweat, but the lock finally gives into his prying fingers. He catches the toe of the guard’s boot in the corner of his eye as he turns the handle and slips inside. Thank the Goddess! He barely made it!

As soon as he shuts the door he’s shoved down to the ground, one arm painfully twisted behind his back and his face kissing the floor. “Announce yourself.” That voice is unmistakably Dedue, though he sounds outright hostile.

Ashe opens both palms in surrender and ekes out against the marble, “It’s me, Ashe.”

“Ashe?” surprise and disbelief color Dedue’s voice. Ashe’s cap is seized off his head and a hand roughly pulls his face to the side for inspection. He’s released immediately after and helped into an upright seated position.

He grimaces, stretching out his shoulder and neck. “Heavens, I forgot how strong you are. Guess I'm very rusty, getting caught like this.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were an intruder.”

“I mean technically I am.” Ashe laughs nervously, fully taking in how Dedue is half naked and in pajama bottoms that yet again, hug his figure very tightly. A hex on the palace tailor.

There’s a beat before they both start, “I—“

“No, please go ahead.”

“No, please you first.”

Again, they overlap: “Well—“

They laugh, a temporary reprieve from the tension in the air.

Dedue runs his hand through his hair. He seems resigned, all traces of laughter gone. A heaviness comes over him, his shoulders hunching under the weight. “What are you doing here?” Ashe’s brain flashes back to his dream for a hot second before flinging him back to reality. Dream-Dedue may have been flirting, but this Dedue certainly isn’t. Anger returns to the man’s voice and it is sharp and biting. “Did you come back to steal something else?”

Ashe winces, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief moment to try and dull the impact. While a fair blow given how the situation must have looked to Dedue when Ashe ran off with the jewel, it stings rather painfully. Especially since it’s not really based on truth. “About that.” Ashe reaches into his pocket and reveals the gem in his hands. “The whole thing is a misunderstanding.” His tongue is thick in his mouth and he curses how even after everything Cornelia has done, there is still a part of him that cringes at the thought of talking badly about a person. If only he could turn this into a story again and remove himself from the equation; the whole process would be so much easier.

He pushes those thoughts away, hanging onto the thread of indignation to find his way back to his point. “Okay, not a misunderstanding. More accurately, I was framed.” He sees Dedue start and puts a hand up as warning. It’s a rude gesture and there’s a flash of shame that accompanies it, but he’s in front of his judge and jury and time is ticking. “Please. Just listen. The whole thing was a set up. I mean one second I’m serving pastries and the next second Cornelia is accusing me of stealing a royal heirloom! She had fallen onto me earlier in the night and I had thought nothing of it, but it was all to put the gem into my pocket so that she could frame me later on. I was so overwhelmed by everything: the press, the attention, you, just everything! I couldn’t think, I couldn’t speak. All I could do is follow my instincts, to run. I know it sounds like a far-fetched tale, but I swear it’s the truth.”

He pauses for a moment to gauge Dedue’s reaction, but the man’s face is blank. The emptiness raises the hairs on the back of Ashe’s neck. His stomach sinks, his heart starts to race, and he can see the grains of time running out.

His voice cracks. “Please believe me. I didn’t mean to take it! Goddess, I don’t even want it!” He pushes his hands out, offering the gem to Dedue. “The only thing I’ve wanted was…” He curls into himself and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “Was you.” It sounds cheesy, even to his own ears.

_The Prince wants nothing to do with you._

Dedue takes the gem out of his hands and considers it in his own. He places it gently on a side table and sighs, sinking into a chair. “Don’t lie to me Ashe.” He rubs his face tiredly and looks at Ashe from behind his fingers. ”I don’t know why you brought this back, what else you may have stolen from the palace or what you are planning even now. I don’t know how your mind works. I don’t know you. Perhaps I never did.”

All the while Dedue is talking, Ashe smothers his feelings, drowning them in his stomach. He flinches at the last statement—without warning, they boil. They bubble up into his chest and overflow, filling every crevice of his being until he’s alight. “You don’t know who _I am_? You’re one to talk. Dedrick? Dedue? I was honest about everything from the beginning. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to gain by lying to you. If you need proof of my innocence, then you can listen to this recording.” He sets the tape recorder down on the floor and slides it to Dedue. It ricochets lightly off the chair leg. “But you can’t call me a liar and escape the title yourself. I should ask the same of you: who are you? Because the man in front of me is not the one that I fell…” The tears come unexpectedly. They burn as they freefall down his cheeks and tuck under his jaw. He clears them with his sleeve but the damage is done. He’s lost steam. “If even a little bit of Dedrick was real, do me the courtesy of listening to it.”

Dedue frowns and picks up the recorder. His finger hovers over the buttons in a loop. Stop. Rewind. Fast Forward. Play. Stop. Rewind. Fast Forward. Play. Stop. Rewind. Fast Forward. Play. Eventually, he sets it aside without ever playing it. “No.”

_The Prince wants nothing to do with you._

A sob escapes Ashe’s lips. Defeat. His head hangs, an anchor dropping into the sea.

“I don’t need to. I believe you. I apologize for accusing you of lying. I am in no position to call you out.”

Ashe holds his breath to smother his relief but his breathing is erratic and his shaky exhales echo throughout the room. He’s pulled out all the weeds between them and his own hurt invades the newly made space, germinating and taking root swiftly. He attempts to put syllables together that aren’t interrupted by hiccups and sobs. It’s a wonder that Dedue understands him at all. “Can I ask why you lied? I told you everything about me. Was it fun playing around with the commoner? Or maybe you were ashamed of me?”

“No!” Dedue’s voice is forceful enough that Ashe flinches, impossibly trying to make himself disappear. Upon seeing this, Dedue dials it back. “No, Ashe Duran, I was not playing around with you and I am not ashamed of you. I am, however, deeply sorry for lying. I could not believe you did not know who I was. I should have told you from the very beginning…but when you assumed I was staff, you treated me like a regular person. I liked that.”

He sighs, pausing every so often in a careful deliberation of what to say next. At least in this regard, Dedrick and Dedue are the same. “When we kept talking, I became afraid. I feared that you would distance yourself should I reveal my true identity as Prince Molinaro. But everything I said and felt as Dedrick is true as Dedue.”

The Prince does truly sound sorry but Ashe struggles to hear anything beyond the sound of his thunderous heartbeat. His tongue catches on itself, because somehow in all this, the fact that this man is royalty escaped him momentarily. He made out with the Prince! He had lewd dreams about the Prince! Goddess, he blew up at the Prince! Reality falls upon him like hail. “I,” He starts, “I shouldn’t be here.” He shifts towards the door, the need to flee spreading like wildfire. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here.”

Dedue takes a cautious step towards him, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. “Ashe, look at me.”

“No.” He sucks in his breath through his teeth. “Really your Highness, I should go.”

The bigger man comes closer and telegraphs his movements very slowly. He holds Ashe’s hands, loosely and gently, so that Ashe can still run if he so desires. He kneels so that he’s looking up at Ashe. “Please do not put space between us.” He sounds so fragile.

Ashe’s vision blurs again. He gives up on holding his tears back. They shatter onto the floor. He shudders. “It’s your title. You deserve to be addressed as such.”

Dedue cups Ashe’s chin with one hand and wipes his eyes with the other. “What use is a title when I cannot even fix something as important as this? I lied to you. I hurt you. I believed Cornelia over you.” He scoffs. “It may seem like I have all the power in the world, but Ashe, right now you are the one in control.”

Ashe’s lower lip wobbles. “Why? I’m nothing special.” His voice comes out so small.

“You are cruel to make me put into words something so difficult. I...I adore you. Is that not enough?”

A prince, asking a commoner if he is enough. It’s absurd, but everything about this situation has been that way. A comedy of errors. Ashe inhales. He closes his eyes for just a moment, holding his breath as he reaches out and grabs hold of the lifeline Dedue is offering. “It’s enough. I just have a lot of insecurities to work through. Someone as plain as me, adored by someone like you. It feels like a dream.” He stammers, doubt slithering about his ankles. “I don’t even have anything to offer you.”

“You do Ashe Duran.”

“I do?”

“Your forgiveness.”

“Oh that?” He laughs, tackling Dedue onto the floor in a hug. “Granted.”

Dedue revels in the embrace for a moment before flipping them over. “May I be so bold as to ask for something else?”

“Yes.”

He strokes Ashe’s face. “Would you stay the night?”

Ashe opens his mouth to respond but Dedue shushes him with a finger. “Will you let me take care of you?”

He takes the digit into his mouth, an indication of subservience, as an answer. 

Dedue removes his finger, holding Ashe’s face in a reprimand so similar to the one many nights ago. “I want to hear you say it. Do you trust me?”

Ashe stares into Dedue’s eyes. Funny, his reflection is unchanged in those irises, neither plainer nor uglier than usual. He looks exactly the same, despite being mirrored in the eyes of a Prince. Of all the things Dedue could be looking at, Dedue is staring at him and only him. There’s a promise there. A future of honesty and openness, a partner he can rely on. The doubt clears.

“Yes.” He breathes.

And he lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they had intense and mind-blowing sex until the end of time. The end :)
> 
> For everyone who stuck with me from the start or anyone that is just joining us, thanks so much for coming along for the ride. It was an idea that came out of nowhere during the holidays and I'm happy that it was a spot of joy for people during these troubling times.
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know via comment. You can also find me on Twitter as @shoppaibitch where I retweet endless Dedue, FE3H, and JJBA-related things.
> 
> \---
> 
> In other news, I'm working on a prequel for this fic covering Sylvain and Ashe's relationship. It's a lot moodier (read: serious) than this one and I'm not sure when it'll be done but here's a snippet:
> 
> Ashe is wearing a bowtie today that matches the stripes of his apron and a funny little boat-shaped hat that makes him look like he stepped right out of the 50s. He runs the whole campaign as host, waiter, cook, and cleaner. Dual-wielding a genuine smile and a soft voice, he disarms impatience with practiced ease. Sylvain has seen this type before. Ashe is the poster child for hard work, giving his all 100% of the time. His speech tree probably consists of platitudes about dreams coming true for those who believe. Sylvain can’t relate. He won’t relate. No, instead, he seeks out a hint of humanity, of fallibility. He finds it in the form of small grooves on Ashe’s lower lip: signs of anxiety, of worries, of insecurities. Sylvain aches to pry his fingers into those cracks, pull Ashe apart and piece him together again. Kintsugi.


End file.
